Dig Up Her Bones
by saoirseronans
Summary: "'What's that? A condom' Clove pulled back to look at him. 'Not quite,' she smiled sweetly and twisted the knife into his back." Clato AU. Clove is a trained assassin. Cato is her next target. She never misses. R&R, rated T.
1. Chapter 1

_Hi everyone! So, this is the first chapter of the new Clato AU I have been drafting for a while now. It's taken me ages to get written down because of school but now it is over for the summer (yay!) I should have more time to write and I can get this up for you! It's kind of becoming a tradition for a summer Clato AU from me (anyone remember Young and Beautiful?) and I hope that you guys will enjoy this story as much as I love writing it. If you do, or if you have any comments at all, you may want to leave a review because you know it will make my day :) I hope you like it!_

_Isabelle xx_

* * *

It was a hot, sweltering evening late in July, the kind of evening that made your skin itch and the hair on the back of your neck prickle with sweat. That afternoon, the daylight had lingered for just a moment longer than it should have done but now, finally, the sun had disappeared under the horizon and the stars were coming out.

The pink moonlight hung in a thick, twilight haze over the city as a sleek black limousine pulled up outside of one of the most fashionable bars in Chicago. 'The Grapevine' had been open for just three weeks, but already it had built up a reputation as the most stylish spot to be in the whole city. It wasn't just the smooth, black glass panelling at the front, or the fragrant jasmine plants that wove their way from the rafters of the riverside terrace to inside the main bar that drew the fashionable elite of Chicago to the place, nor even the skills of the barman, who, rumour would have it, had shaken cocktails in the most exclusive of nightclubs in the world. What made the Grapevine so appealing, so attractive to the young and rich members of the city, was the clientèle and the company that gravitated towards it.

Out of the limousine stepped a young man. He was perhaps only in his mid-twenties, but already his suit was the most expensive that Armani had to offer, his shoes were made from Italian leather and as he straightened his jacket, the faint scent of the latest Dior aftershave fused the late evening air. He was dark, with skin the colour of coffee just after the milk had been swirled into it and close shaven black hair. Glancing over his shoulder, his amber eyes scanned the street warily, as if searching for someone but he turned back when his driver enquired when he wanted picking up. After settling on a time (12:30, half an hour before the bar closed for the night), the man stepped through the door and into the bar.

As soon as he had disappeared, a figure slid out of the shadows across the road. A girl, of about eighteen stood, her arms crossed over her chest, watching as the limousine slid out of its place on the kerb and drove out of sight around the corner. Once it was gone, she smiled. Opening her bag, she pulled out a small tube of lipstick and a small compact mirror, engraved with the letters 'C' and 'A' and, flipping the lid of the mirror, she began to apply the lipstick. Finishing with a flourish, she clicked the lid back shut and pocketed the lipstick, rubbing her fresh, red lips to a pout and sighed with satisfaction. She smiled again, suppressing a small, bubbling chuckle and stepped out to cross the street and enter the bar.

_The hunt is on._

* * *

Once he was inside The Grapevine, Jackson Bourne tried to relax. He made his way easily through the small groups of his peers, dressed in smart suits and rainbow coloured cocktail dresses, already clustered at the exclusive black booth tables, and headed towards the bar, where he jumped up onto a leather bar stool. Since it was still fairly early in the evening, the place was still fairly empty. Jackson was the only person sitting there.

'What will it be?' He glanced up to see the barman, his shirt sleeves rolled up past his elbows, watching him carefully. His lilting accent told him that the man was Italian.

'The house special, please,' he ordered, to which the man gave a curt, but respecting, nod and pulled several bottles off the counters behind him.

Having ordered, Jackson shifted his weight from one side of his body to the other and tried to ease the heavy tension out of his body. He had no need to be fearful. They couldn't get him tonight, not here. He would be safe tonight.

Reassured, he began to glance around the bar. It had been designed as a kind of conservatory, with soft green walls with parts of red bricks showing through in strategically aesthetic looking places. The ceiling was made entirely of glass panes that opened, allowing for branches of jasmine to climb inside, giving the room a pleasant perfume. The tables and matching chairs were all mahogany wood, polished to a finish. On each table was a slim glass vase with a single red rose in it and two black menus, with white wording. As Jackson watched, a waiter escorted a couple to a table. The man held out the chair for his girlfriend to sit in and, as he pushed it in, Jackson saw him put his face close to hers. The woman laughed, shaking her blonde curls over her face as he took his seat opposite her. They began to hold hands over the table.

'One Lime Star, the special of the house.' The bar man slid Jackson's drink down to him. Jackson caught it and took a sip. The drink was light and fruity, but he could feel the sting of vodka when it reached the back of his throat and the fizz of mint up his nose. Jackson smiled and took another swig.

'Put it on my tab,' he requested and the barman gave his short nod again and turned to the cash register. 'Under 'Jackson Bourne'.'

'I'll have what he's having.'

At the sound of the female voice, Jackson's head jerked backwards. A girl had appeared next to him and lifted herself effortlessly onto the stool beside him, tossing her long, dark hair back over her bare shoulder. She was small, short and slim, but fairly toned. She was wearing a short black dress with a flouncy skirt and bright red stilettos, matching her blood red lip stain. As she caught his eye, she winked at him and he noticed that her eyes were the electric green of a pedigree cat. Jackson felt his body flush with heat.

The barman was less amused. 'Are you old enough to drink?'

The girl rolled her eyes at Jackson and fished an ID card out of her purse and handed it over to him. Jackson highly doubted this girl was 21 but whatever the ID said, it seemed to satisfy the barman.

'One more Lime Star on its way,' he muttered, handing the ID back to the girl. She put it back in her purse and beamed up at Jackson.

'I have to carry it everywhere,' she sighed, over emphasising the first 'e'. 'Seriously. Nobody ever believes that I'm twenty-two.'

Jackson laughed aloud. 'They never.'

'It's true!' She ran her finger down the edge of the bar. 'Until I was, like nineteen, my parents still paid child fares for me at the cinema. Of course, that meant I could spend more on popcorn so I wasn't complaining...'

Jackson laughed again. 'I guess there are perks to everything.'

'Exactly!'

The barman sent the girl's drink down to her. She caught it up in one hand and lifted it to her lips. Jackson felt his eyes drawn to her mouth as she drank. When she pulled away from the glass, there were red lipstick rings on the edge.

'So,' she smiled at him. 'Jackson Bourne, right? Why does your name sound familiar? And I'm sure I've seen that handsome face before...'

Jackson grinned. 'Maybe because they're on the packaging of almost every electronic device in Chicago?'

The girl's eyes lit up. 'Ah, so you're _that_ Jackson Bourne!'

'Is there any other?' Jackson felt pleased that she was so impressed by him and his occupation. 'And you are?'

Unexpectedly, the girl hesitated. Then, 'Samantha. Samantha Hargrove.'

He gave a snort. 'Are you sure? You don't sound it.'

'I'm sure.' Almost as soon as it had vanished, her charm resurfaced. 'So, is there a Mrs Bourne in the picture?'

'Apart from my mother?' She laughed at that. 'No, no. My girlfriend broke up with me a few months ago.'

'Oh!' Her face became crestfallen. 'Oh, I'm so sorry.'

He shrugged, uncomfortable that he had upset her. 'It's not a big deal. She told me she couldn't handle the fame, packed a bag and left.'

It had been a big deal when it happened. He had not left their apartment for a week and had hardly left their queen-size bed, while it still smelt of her expensive perfume.

He cleared his throat. 'But, yeah. I'm over her now.'

Samantha smiled at him. 'Good.'

He took another sip of his drink, just to fill the silence. 'How about you?' he asked her.

Samantha raised one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. The action let one shoulder of her dress slide down, revealing the strap on her black bra. 'I'm still looking for the right one,' she said softly, keeping her eyes down, but a secret smile was creeping onto her lips. Taking a final sip of his drink, Jackson couldn't help himself but smile too.

After draining his glass, he noticed that hers was also empty. He nodded towards it. 'Can I buy you another?'

Samantha's eyes lit up and she bit one corner of her lip. Watching that one movement, Jackson's body surged with longing. 'I would be honoured,' she replied.

* * *

As Jackson Bourne pushed her through the door of the women's restrooms at The Grapevine at some time near midnight, Clove Anderson could have shrieked with delight. Too easy. God, tonight had been too easy and too much fun. When Jackson's face and profile had turned up on her desk this morning, she had groaned inwardly. He looked so smart and sophisticated and she had thought that there was no way he would have fallen for it.

Ultimately, it looked like she had been wrong.

She had barely had to do anything. One flip of the hair, one coy smile, a fake name and she had him eating out of the palm of her hand. Hook, line and sinker.

He had bought her drink after drink and, as he had steadily drunken all of his, she had been slowly dripping hers into the plant pot next to the bar. All the while, she had kept up the act: flirting, laughing and teasing him with her foot. Once she had decided he was sufficiently drunk, she had leaned over and kissed him. Moments later, he had started towards the restrooms, her hand in his and now here they were.

Jackson turned her around and started pressing fast and furious kisses onto her lips. Clove accepted them eagerly, allowing her body to beg for more. They stumbled back onto the door and Clove pressed her hands behind her back to lock them inside. The last thing she needed was to be disturbed now.

'God, you're so fucking sexy,' Jackson mumbled, his words slurring together as he kissed her neck, her collar, the tops of her breasts.

Clove allowed herself to moan, tilting back her head. 'Say it again.'

'You're so sexy, you're so fucking sexy.' Jackson smelt like alcohol and aftershave. Clove fought back the urge to wrinkle her nose and hold her breath and instead lurched herself forward into his arms. Jackson grunted and staggered, but lifted her up so they were at eye height and continued kissing her.

While he started running his hand up her leg, Clove glanced behind him. To her left was a row of toilet stalls and to her right was a wood bench with three white basins rising out. There was a window, a small one, on the wall in the middle. Mentally calculating, Clove approximated that it came out on the back lane, just before the river. _Perfect_. Triumphantly, she kissed Jackson's ear and wrapped her arms tight around his neck, forcing herself higher, and brought one leg up around his waist.

Together, wrapped around one another, they stumbled backwards so Jackson could sit on her on the wood bench. Clove kept her legs around his middle but let her body fall backwards, her hands splayed out behind her. Jackson lunged forwards, still intent on kissing her. Clove kissed back, making sure she looked as eager and drunk as he was. Pathetic.

'I want you to come home with me,' Jackson murmured, his chest heaving hard. His hands were feeling her body, her hips, her thighs, her back.

'Do you?' Clove breathed, leaning forward to cup the back of his neck.

'Yeah.' Jackson gave a small laugh. 'Yeah, I really do. Come home with me and I'll buy you nice things. Pretty dresses. Shoes. Diamonds. Anything. Come home with me.'

Clove shook her head. God, he was so fucking desperate it was almost funny. 'Not yet,' she purred and reached behind her for her purse.

'What's that?' Jackson asked, his hot breath a burning brand on her neck. 'A condom?'

Clove pulled back to look at him. 'Not quite,' she smiled sweetly and twisted the knife into his back.

Jackson's eyes bulged, his body tightened. Then, his eyes glazed over and his limbs went slack and he slide, soundlessly, to the tiled floor. A small crimson pool began to bloom around his chest, like angel wings.

Calmly, Clove slide down from the bench and straightened down her dress. Bending down, she wiped the blood off of her silver hilted knife on the crisp whiteness of Jackson's shirt and put it back in her purse. There was nothing about the scene that could link the police back to her. All her drinks had gone on Jackson's tab. She had not booked a table and if the barman had caught her telling Jackson her name, it didn't matter. Samantha Hargrove did not exist. Brushing a stray hair back behind her ear, Clove smiled in satisfaction. _Perfect._

She was about to step over the corpse and out the window when something pulled her back. Twisting her lip with her front teeth, she hesitated. Then, pulling her lipstick out of her purse again, she made another application and bent down. Jackson's body was still warm to touch and, in a different situation, she might have though him sleeping.

Bringing her face as close to his as possible, Clove kissed his left cheek. When she drew away, she had made a lip shaped red mark on his skin.

Clove jumped to her feet, light as a cat, and walked over to the window. Kicking off her shoes and hooking two fingers under the straps, she placed one foot on top of the bin underneath it and she lifted herself up onto it. Carefully, she climbed out the window, pausing only once to glance back at the tableau she was leaving. Then, she was gone.

Once outside, Clove breathed in the deep, cool air of Chicago at midnight and felt contentment deep in her stomach. This was her city. She knew the backstreets and alleyways like she knew the lines on the palms of her hand. She had done her job tonight and she could not have pulled it off better.

_Perfection_. She liked the job done like that.

Behind her, she could hear a woman banging on the restroom door. Soon, they would open it and find the body. Soon, she would hear police sirens piece the thin silence in Chicago and there would be police out looking for her. She, of course, would be nowhere to be found.

Still holding her stilettos in her hand, Clove began to walk into the shadows until they opened up and swallowed her, enveloped her in the safety of their darkness.

_The hunt is over._


	2. Chapter 2

_Hi guys! Wow, I cannot thank you enough for all the positive reviews you left after the first chapter! It's so so encouraging to read it all and really motivated me to keep writing this story (which I am really excited about and it's so nice to see that you are too!). So, we meet Cato in this chapter and I'm a little rusty writing him so I am hoping to improve on that in future chapters so please don't judge me too badly on it. I hope you enjoy this chapter and maybe leave me a review again? ;) I love you all!_

* * *

Cato Monroe sat on a bench by the side of the river, rolling a cigarette between two fingers. It was stifling hot, almost suffocating, and he had felt too confined within his office to do work, so he had come out here for some air. It wasn't that much cooler outside, but there was a faint breeze blowing in from over Lake Michigan which made it somewhat more bearable.

Reaching up, he unbuttoned the top two buttons on his crisp blue shirt and took a drag on the cigarette. Pulling it out of his mouth, he wrinkled up his nose and tossed it away down into the river. He had got to start giving up smoking.

'Littering so early in the morning?'

Cato spun around, his shoulders tensing up. Leaning on a tree five metres away, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other clutching a newspaper was Marvel Carter, his partner in crime since college and his best friend. He relaxed.

'Oh, it's you,' Cato said, rudely, turning back to the river.

'Of course it's me, dumbass. Who else were you expecting?'

'You know who I was expecting.'

Marvel sauntered over and sat down next to him on the bench. Cato pulled out another cigarette and flicked his lighter.

'Dude, you just threw away one perfectly good one and now you're having another?'

'I forgot why I needed to smoke. You reminded me.'

Marvel rolled his eyes. Cato took another long drag on his cigarette and blew smoke rings into the air. They sat together in silence for a few minutes, watching the hot Chicago morning drift by. On the other side of the river, cars drove past, their colours glinting in the sunlight like stars. On the river, boats passed by, loaded with various cargo boxes and people. When they had been younger, he and Marvel had spent many lazy afternoons after class hanging out by the river and making up elaborate stories about where the boats were going, what was on them and who was driving. Looking back, it all seemed so stupid. Cato brought the cigarette up to his mouth again.

'Guess you saw this?' Marvel held up the paper. Splayed upon the front page was the huge headline: 'BOURNE FOUND DEAD IN BAR'. Accompanying it was a large colour picture of Jackson's dead body, flung on the floor, blood pooled around him. His eyes stared up out of the picture, terrified. 'Poor bastard.'

'You think that _he_ got him?' Cato asked, drawing his eyes away from the picture.

'Who else would it be?'

Cato shrugged. Marvel pulled the cigarette from his hand and brought it up to his own mouth. 'He's the fourth one, Marv,' he said.

'I know.'

'Reckon we're next?'

'It would make sense.'

'Shit.'

Cato took his cigarette back. Another couple of minutes passed by. Neither of them said anything. Cato knew they were both thinking about the same thing.

A couple of years ago, when he and Marvel had been fresh out of high school and looking at college, they had been approached by four students from the University of Chicago. The four, Jackson Bourne among them, had asked them for their help. Both Cato and Marvel had been renown at their high school for their computer skills. They had hacked into the school system multiple times to alter their grades or reports but had never been caught. The teachers had gone mad trying to find some evidence of hacking but Cato knew how to cover his tracks.

The students had wanted help with something big, something illegal. They wanted to hack into the computer and bank system of a well known business typhoon, who they argued had stolen money from them.

'He lied to us,' Jackson had hissed. 'He said it was an investment. An investment we would be proud of in the future.'

'We'll never get it back otherwise,' a girl, Jasmine Yaxley, had added. She had crossed her arms over her chest protectively and looked up at the two boys with defiance shining in her eyes. 'We're just taking back what's ours.'

Cato had glanced sideways at Marvel and seen his friend's eyes bug out at Jasmine; clearly he had already been sold.

They agreed to help with the hack and in return had been promised $10,000 for their trouble. They attended the University, both taking Computer Science and Business and planning the hack in their spare time with the others. When the time came, they pulled it off as flawlessly as expected and Cato and Marvel had parted from the group richer than they had ever dreamed they could be before graduating college. The money had helped them to launch their own company, start their own lives. Although they hadn't stayed in contact much with the others, they knew that they had done similar things. Jackson, for instance, had developed the biggest rival to the Apple electronic branch that America had ever seen. Jasmine had designed her own exclusive shoe and matching handbag range. The other two had joined together to go into advertising. Now, four years down the line, they were all dead within six months of each other. And all, it appeared, had been murdered.

Marvel broke the silence first, clearing his throat. 'I've been thinking.'

'Oh God, not again,' Cato said dryly.

'I'm not kidding.' Marvel rubbed his hands together. 'I'm leaving.'

Cato's cigarette stopped half-way to his mouth. 'You are kidding.'

'Does it fucking look like I'm kidding?'

Cato looked. For once, Marvel's face was not smiling. Slowly, Cato's hands dropped back between his knees. 'Shit. You're going? Where?'

'I don't know.' Marvel ran a hand through his hair. 'Europe, maybe. Paris. I like French chicks.' Cato snorted, despite himself. 'I'll start afresh there.'

'What, you're just going to run?'

'Instead of staying here and waiting to be next? You know I do that.' Marvel's face was troubled.

'Because of Katie?' Cato asked, bitterness in his tone.

'She doesn't deserve this, Cato,' Marvel said softly, the way his voice always went when he talked about his kid sister. 'I won't put her in danger.'

Cato felt the tug of resentment deep in his gut. Since Marvel's dad had moved in with his new lady last year, Marvel had kept Katie, his thirteen year old sister, with him. He adored her, she looked up to him and Cato knew how close they were. That just made it worse when he realised he would never have that. He had always been alone, and now it seemed he was even going to be without his best friend.

'You seriously think he won't find you in Europe?' he asked eventually.

'No, but being there will make me damn harder to find.' Marvel's voice was determined. 'We'll change our names. Bank accounts. Whatever it takes.'

'When are you going?'

Marvel glanced over his shoulder. For the first time, Cato noticed Marvel's car parked across the road from the bench. The passenger seat window was rolled down and Cato could see Marvel's sister sitting inside on her phone. As if feeling their eyes, she glanced up and waved nervously. Marvel waved back and held up two fingers. Katie nodded, understanding.

Cato's heart was in his mouth. 'You're leaving now?'

'I'm sorry.' Marvel shrugged helplessly. 'I have to.'

'Right.' Cato stood up, abruptly, dropping his cigarette on the pavement and crushing it under his foot. 'See you then.' He turned sharply, to stop Marvel seeing the pain in his eyes.

'Cato, wait.' Marvel sprang up and rested his hand on Cato's shoulder. 'Maybe you should go too,' he said quietly, dangerously. 'Go somewhere else, somewhere safe. Somewhere _he_ can't find you.'

Cato turned back to his friend. '_I_ haven't done anything wrong,' he hissed. '_He's_ the one that should be running.'

'Yeah, well, when he does let me know,' Marvel said, crossing his arms. 'And then maybe we'll come back,' he added, jerking his head towards the car and his sister

'It's a deal.'

'Until then.' Marvel gave him a mock salute. Cato shook his head.

'Dumbass.'

'Asshole,' Marvel shot back, before crossing the road and getting in his car.

Cato watched as the car drove off the pavement and rejoined the traffic. He kept watching until it had merged into the other cars and vanished altogether, almost as if it had never been there at all.

* * *

Clove stood at the bottom of the tallest skyscraper in Chicago, her baby blue sidebag swinging at her hip, arms crossed over her chest. She looked up to the top of the building, holding her sunglasses in place and squinting slightly in the late morning sun. At the top of the block, she could just about make out the 'Capitol' logo, presiding over the city like an overbearing tyrant. She wrinkled her nose in distaste and took three long steps up the stairs and into the revolving doors to the lobby.

Inside, it was cool and airy. Clove wondered how much power was being fuelled into the building to keep it at this temperature. All the surfaces were chrome and shining like they had just received an extra hard polish. The walls were white, the furniture was white and the leather couches were dotted around the room were also a pristine white. There were a few people, all dressed in white suits or dresses, floating around with headsets or clipboards. Clove made her way over to the receptionist, who smiled up at her with pearly perfect teeth.

'Can I help you?' she asked.

Clove looked at her. _It would be so easy to kill her_, she mused. _A knife from the tip of her ear all the way down under her chin to the other ear, a crimson smile to replace the simpering one already plastered on her face. _

Clove smiled. 'I'm here to see Coriolanus.'

The receptionist frowned. 'Mr Snow isn't seeing...'

'He'll see me,' Clove interrupted, lowering her sunglasses so the woman could see her eyes. Almost instantly, she saw the woman falter and her lip waver.

After a few seconds, the receptionist gave a jerk of her head that just about passed as a nod. 'Go on up,' she said quietly.

Clove slid her glasses back in place and strode over to the lifts. She pressed the call button and waited. When it arrived, it was empty. Clove stepped inside and pressed the button for the thirteenth floor. As it began its slow ascent, the faint chords of 'Don't Stop Believing' were heard playing on the speakers. Clove rolled her eyes.

The lift opened up in a corridor that looked remarkably like the lobby, only thinner and with more windows. To her left, was a wide single door, with a white rose engraved in the wood. A black intercom was implanted into the wall to the left of the door. When Clove approached it, an electronic female voice buzzed out: '_identification, please_'.

Bending forward, Clove pressed her eye to the panel. A bright blue light flashed into her eye and the door slide open silently.

Inside, the office appeared to take up the entire floor of the skyscraper. The floor was polished white wood and the furniture was all black – leather L-shaped couches, black glass tables and a long wooden cabinet that appeared empty except for one vase with a single white rose in the middle. Floor to ceiling windows lined three of the four walls, giving an incredible panoramic view of Chicago. But Clove was in no position to be admiring the view. Her attention drew straight to the wide black desk in the centre of the room with the man seated behind it, his white suit blinding.

'I'm not happy.'

'Really?' Clove strode down and flopped her body down into the chair opposite the desk. 'If I had just had one of the people I hated most in the world taken down for me by someone else without any tie back to me, I'd be pretty damn pleased.'

Coriolanus Snow looked at her in the same manner you would look at an ignorant child. It made Clove's blood boil. 'I did not hate Jackson Bourne,' he replied cool as ice. 'He simply needed eliminating.'

Clove rolled her eyes. 'Fine. I eliminated him for you. Happy?'

Snow's answer was to flick a newspaper across the table at her. Clove's eyes ran over the front page quickly. There were four pictures arranged in a square and, slowly, Clove recognised them as each of her kills. Each had a red, kiss shaped mark on their cheeks. The headline blazed: 'LINK BETWEEN CHICAGO MURDERS?'

'There's calling it the 'Assassin's Kiss',' Snow remarked, dryly. Clove gave a snort of distaste. 'You might well laugh, Clove, but this is dangerous. This makes what happened connected. It's a pattern.' Snow pulled a pair of gloves out of a drawer and put them on. He looked at her. 'I dislike patterns.'

_Well, I like them_, Clove thought sullenly, but did not say. The kisses had started out as whims, flights of fancy but once she had started she couldn't stop. Every perfect kill needed a kiss now. She could do nothing about it, it was just the way it had to be. She dug her nails into her palms, hard, and gave Snow a sickly sweet smile.

'It won't happen again,' she said, as she feel the hot wetness of blood prick between her fingernails. 'I promise.'

Snow watched her, his blue eyes piercing. A shiver ran down Clove's spine.

'Good,' he said eventually. He took the paper back from her view and deposited it down a rubbish chute next to his desk. Clove imagined the small puff of smoke as it burnt up in the basement. 'Now,' Snow continued, 'I have a new mission for you.'

'Oh good,' Clove said sarcastically. 'I was beginning to get bored.'

Snow ignored her and passed a bunch of papers across the desk to her. 'He took longer to track down than the others, hid himself better. Younger, but not by much. Certainly smarter. He was one of the ones the group recruited from high school in order to fulfil their aim. The other one I have been unable to locate yet.'

Clove scanned the sheets of paper. He was twenty, owner of his own company, lived in Highland Park...she flipped past his recent credit card transactions and found his photograph. Her breath caught in her throat.

He was blonde, with creamy skin and a faint stubble around his chin and creeping up to his hairline. His eyes were blue but not the crystal clear blue of Coriolanus eyes she hardly dared look at because she saw nothing inside of them but emptiness. These eyes had a hardness to them, a fierceness and defensiveness. Clove saw danger in those eyes, which only drew her closer in.

Suddenly, she drew back, giving a small shake of her head, as if she could knock all thoughts from her head. What the hell was up with her? This man was as good as dead.

'What's his name?' she asked, her voice as disinterested and careless as she could manage.

'Cato. Cato Monroe.' Clove nodded slowly, acknowledging the name. She took it, a secret, a secret known only to her and hidden from everyone else in the world. She pressed it close to her heart, to her chest where her knives rested snugly inside her jacket pocket.

She looked up at Snow, forcing herself to look into the deadness of his eyes, and raised her chin defiantly.

'He'll be dead by morning.'

Across from them, a single petal fell from the white rose and drifted down onto the dark wood of the cabinet, bleeding into the surface like wine soaked into carpet.


	3. Chapter 3

_Hiya everyone! Sorry this is a little later than usual but I was pretty ill over the weekend so I didn't manage to finish the chapter in time to get it up the other night. I'm sorry! Also, I kind of wanted this chapter to be perfect as it's pretty important to the story so I took a while getting it right. Thank you so much for all the support and reviews on the last chapter, I hope this lives up to your expectations!_

* * *

Night had already fallen, swiftly and surely, by the time Cato ventured out of his apartment and onto the streets of Chicago. He had lingered there for as long as he could, taking an extra long shower, picking out his shirt and shoes extremely carefully but now it was gone eleven and he knew he could delay going out no longer.

He hurried out of his apartment building, sliding his keys safely into his jacket pocket, next to his phone and something else, hard and metal.

'Evening, Mr Monroe,' the doorman acknowledged him politely, as he went down the front steps. Cato grunted in reply, not in the mood for conversation.

He didn't know where he was going. Admittedly, there were several places he wanted to go and could go but he didn't quite dare: The Grapevine, for one. He had loved that place and the cool ambiance it shed but, since what had happened to Jackson there, it seemed too obvious a target. Best to stay away and be safe.

Mentally, Cato started to run down in his head his old favourite haunts and then, just as quickly as he had conjured them, he dismissed them. All of them were tied to his name – he had reservations and tabs on all the most expensive bars and restaurants in the city; if he went to any of them then he would be like a sitting duck, an easy target. Or, even worse, a pawn falling into a perfectly spun spider's web. Cato refused to let that happen.

He drifted around his neighbourhood, aimless and listless, poking his head into a few places that looked vaguely animated and then quietly pulling away and shutting the door again. Eventually, he came to realise that his feet had taken him further than he had thought; he had left the streets he was most familiar with and was on a rougher neighbourhood, with large cracks in the pavements under his feet and flickering orange streetlights above his head. People were suddenly all around him; women staggering against one another and shrieking with wicked laughter, men stalking after them, their clothes reeking of liquor.

_Liquor!_ Cato's head shot up. There must be a bar around somewhere. He no longer cared about image, or atmosphere. Now, all he wanted to do was drink. His eyes began skating over the streets and round the corners, searching for what might be the bar the rugged group had come from. Suddenly, he spotted it.

About forty feet away from where he was standing was a large crowd of people, all with drinks in their hands, tottering about on unsteady legs. As they parted, he saw through their legs the steps down into the basement of what looked like any other town house building. A large, flashing neon sign pointing down to the basement informed him that the bar was called 'Riverside'. Picking his way through the throngs of people, Cato ducked his head and entered the bar.

Inside, the air was heavy with smoke and sticky with heat. A mismatch of tables and chairs were scattered across the basement, which seemed to have expanded; it hadn't looked this large from the inside. People were milling around everywhere, lounging ontop of the tables and dancing wildly on the chairs like they were at some kind of hippy down-town rave. Music was pumping, hard and loud, from speakers that were hidden across the room, Cato could feel the vibrations thumping through his head, prickling at his mind. It was giving him a headache. He needed a drink.

He began struggling his way though the masses of moving, swelling bodies towards the bar. The bar was covered in empty bottles and glasses with small fingerbowls stuffed with nuts and little crisps; a group of people dressed in bright neon clothing and electric coloured lipstick were scrabbling into them with grubby fingernails while they sipped drinks that they appeared to be sharing.

'What'll it be, pretty boy?' the barman grunted in Cato's direction, eyeing up his expensive suit and shoes, chewing with his mouth open on his gum.

'Uh, I'll get the special of the house.' That seemed a safe enough bet in a place like this.

The barman snorted through his nose and looked at the others gathered around the bar, who sniggered up at Cato, shaking their heads. Cato felt his body burn with anger and .

'There ain't no house special here, sunshine,' the barman said, pulling his gum out of his mouth and sticking it on the wall behind him (he had quite a collection up there). 'Unless you're after a bottle of piss,' he added, to more titters and sly glances up at Cato.

Humiliation burned at the back of Cato's throat. 'Give me a beer,' he muttered.

'What, didn't your mother ever tell you to say 'please'?'

'Just give me a beer,' Cato snapped, slamming his hand on the table, making the bottles and glasses jump and play out a tinkling tune as they trembled back into silence. The barman glared at him, but Cato just glared back. Finally, without dropping his gaze, the man pulled a beer bottle of the shelf underneath the bar, pulled the cap off and thrust it at Cato.

'Thanks,' Cato said with a curt nod and pulled the bottle up to his lips. The beer was cold and bitter. It was probably the best thing Cato had tasted all day.

Behind him, he heard footsteps on the stairs and a great roar of male voices went up among the crowd. He turned on his heel to see what the commotion was about.

Coming down the steps was a girl, a girl maybe a few years younger than he was. She was wearing a red dress which had a sheer skirt that swished around her knees and black wedge shoes with ribbons twisting up her slim, white ankles. A small black bag swung at her side, banging on her hip. As she reached the bottom of the stairs, she tossed the few loose curls of her dark hair, which was pulled up ontop of her head, over her shoulder, to several wolf-whistles across the room.

'Hey, darlin',' one man slurred from the far corner, 'if you're lookin' for a good time, you came to the right place. Get over here, let me see your-' The end of his statement was drowned out with hoots of laughter and cat-calling. Cato rolled his eyes in disgust. God, why the hell had he picked out this hellhole to drink at?

'Pipe the fuck down, Sal.' A younger man, probably Cato's age, moved forward, his hands in his jean pockets and a leering, greedy look on his face as he eyed up the newcomer. 'If the girlie wants to have some fun, she won't be looking for it in _your_ pants.' Another round of laughter rippled around the room. The girl in question rolled her eyes, apparently unaffected by the attention.

'What's the matter, sweetie?' the younger guy asked her, moving closer, his arm skating around to her thigh. 'Need to loosen up-?'

Suddenly, the girl snapped into action. Her hand shot up to clutch the guy's wrist and gave it a sharp twist. The guy yelped in pain and doubled over, trying to wretch his hand back from her grasp. Instead of releasing him, the girl brought her other hand up to grab him at the neck, her thumb pressed under his chin and her first finger on the other side of his face and squeezed. With another howl, the man's knees buckled under his weight as he pulled back and the girl took it as the perfect opportunity to bring her ankle under his leg and sweep him off his feet and tumbling to the floor.

'The next time you want to touch a girl inappropriately,' the girl said, her voice quick and breezy as she looked down at the guy. 'Make sure you can handle her first. Otherwise you might end up looking pretty stupid.' She dropped her gaze down to his trousers. Somehow, before he had collapsed on the floor, she had managed to undo his flies, exposing bright pink underpants.

The girl turned away from the scene she had created, all within thirty seconds, brushing invsible dirt off her arms, as the men started clamouring at the guy on the floor and clapping him on the back. She made her way up to the bar and leant across the wood towards the bartender.

'I'll have a vodka shot,' she instructed and the guy obeyed her without a word, even though it was pretty obvious she was underage.

Cato suddenly found that he was staring at her, had been since he had first caught sight of her walking down the stairs. She was not exactly beautiful; he had seen and fucked many girls who had been far more beautiful than she was. She was attractive, certainly, but she was not the conventional kind of beautiful that normally attracted him to women. But, there was _something_ about her. Something different and something dangerous that drew him closer, made him interested. He wanted to get to know her.

The girl seemed to feel his gaze, on her back, on her arms, on her body. Her head turned, slowly, to look at him.

'Can I help you?' she asked crisply, tilting her head so her hair tipped over her shoulder. She had luminous green eyes and a small splattering of freckles down one cheek and over her nose. Cato licked his lips.

'You did it wrong,' he said.

Her eyes narrowed. '_Excuse_ me?'

'You did it wrong,' Cato repeated, raising an eyebrow in an attempt to appear superior. 'That thing you did on the guy? With your hand?'

'What's it to you?' she retorted.

Cato felt a smug satisfaction spread through his body. He had her attention now. 'It needed to be harder,' he explained, revelling in the surprise on her face, 'and faster. Higher up under his chin. Then it would cut off his blood supply enough to knock him out.'

'Oh yeah? And who said I wanted to knock him out?' she snapped at him, her green eyes flashing with irritation.

Cato shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. 'I never said you did. But it's pretty pointless as a move unless you're trying to get someone unconscious.'

The girl took a step back, regarding him closely, her eyes scanning over his face, his body like a painter stepping back to admire his handiwork. Usually, being regarded like that made Cato feel angry, but somehow with her, he liked it. It made him feel like she was 'And what would you know about knocking people unconscious?' she asked, tossing her hair back.

In a play of fake-modesty, Cato glanced at the floor to hide his smile. 'Oh, you know. Ten years of kung-fu training. I'm a black belt.' He glanced up at her through her eyelids, waiting for her to show some sign of respect, or being impressed. From what he could see, she wasn't.

'Anyway,' he continued, slightly irked. 'It's not your fault you couldn't do it. You are only a girl after all.'

That got a reaction. 'Only a girl?' she repeated incredulously. 'God, that's a load of misogynistic bullshit if ever I heard it.'

'All I mean is, you've got smaller hands,' Cato replied, smoothly. 'It's not physically possible for you to do it right.'

The girl raised her eyebrows at him as the bartender poured out her shot. She snatched it up in one hand and took it to her lips and drained it in one swig. After she thumped her glass back down on the table, she raked her hand back across her mouth, leaving a red smudge on the back of her hand.

'So, what's your name, then?' she asked, holding her glass out for a refill.

'Cato. Cato Monroe. Head of Monroe-Carter Enterprise.' Surely she would be impressed by that.

'Shouldn't that be co-head?' she asked innocently, her nose scrunched up playfully.

'And you?' he asked, ignoring her last statement.

Here, a crack appeared in the confidence of the girl's façade. She hesitated, a crease appearing in her forehead, before answering. 'Clove.'

'Cute name.'

'Thanks, picked it out myself.'

He whistled. 'Put your claws away.'

'You're an asshole, you know that?' she retorted, turning her body to mirror his.

Cato liked her. She was sarcastic, sharp and actually pretty cute. He'd been trying to flirt with her, he realised suddenly. He'd wanted to impress her and make her smile. Plus, after the beer he had just drained, his body had now advanced on what it needed from him. He wanted to kiss her.

He leaned forward, his arm cautiously moving towards her waist, remembering what has happened to the last guy who had tried to touch her. She stopped him, just before his lips reached hers, with a finger to his lips and a hand on his chest, surprisingly gentle.

'Not here,' she murmured.

'Why not?' he breathed indignantly, hurt prickling at his pride.

'Call me prude, but I don't exactly want fifty pairs of eyes gawking at me as I make out with a guy.' She brought her lips tantalisingly close to his face and whispered into his ear. 'I know a place we can go though.'

Cato felt a smile break through on his face as Clove moved closer to him and took his hand in hers. Her fingers were cool, colder than he could have imagined they'd be in a place as hot as this godforsaken bar. She tugged at him, with a strange forcefulness he hadn't thought she could be capable of. She felt strong and tough and again Cato felt a sense of danger under her touch. But, when she pulled at his hand again, he let her lead him off.

* * *

Clove's heart was thumping wildly against the flimsy material of her dress as she led Cato Monroe out the back door of the bar and onto the alleyway behind it. She hadn't been able to secure it before she had gone into the bar after Cato; the little bastard had insisted on jumping from place to place and she had been running out of time. She wasn't as comfortable about this job as she had been for some of the others. She wasn't familiar with this territory, she hadn't gotten her target sufficiently drunk before removing him and, to top it all of, she had told him her real name. Just her first name, but it was enough to be a risk. She wasn't entirely sure why she had done it, either, it had just come out when he asked her. It had been a mistake and Clove was not eager to make any more tonight.

No sooner than the back door had closed behind them, Cato took her roughly by the waist and pushed her backwards so her back was to the wall and kissed her. His hands were hot as they moved, up her back to her throat to hold her steady as he pressed his lips to hers, again and again, harder, faster. Clove opened her mouth to his, allowing his kisses to penetrate her, all the while focusing a great deal of her energy into keeping her mind alert.

She didn't like being pressed against the wall. It took away her control over the situation and control meant everything in this job.

Cato was still kissing her, his body pressed firmly against her own and his legs straddling her. His hands were still exploring her body, strangely gentle and yet incredibly intense. Without any instruction from her brain, Clove's arms reached up to his neck, snaking around until they were linked. Cato's kisses became harder still, reaching deeper into her and folding her closer. Deep inside of her, Clove felt something unfamiliar stir and a shuddering sigh escaped from her lips before she had time to stop it.

_Focus!_

Clove's eyes flashed open again (when had she closed them? She didn't remember closing them) and her hands slid down to grip Cato by the sleeves of his shirt. She pushed herself off the wall with one foot and twisted around so he was pinned there in her place. Almost instantly, he grabbed her around her waist again and, lifting her off her feet, put her back where she had been, one arm on the wall over her head, the other still holding her close. Breathless, Clove found herself stuck. He was strong, stronger than she had anticipated.

_Control, control._

'I know another place we can go,' he told her, his face pressed excruciatingly close to her skin.

'Oh yeah?' she replied, gasping slightly as his teeth brushed against her cheek.

'Yeah.' She could hear the smile in his voice, even if she couldn't see it. 'My place has a bed...'

Holy shit. She needed to move fast.

'I like the sound of that,' she said, reaching on her tip-toes to kiss the side of his face. 'There's just one thing I need to do first...' Loosening her grip around his neck with one hand, she reached back to her bag.

'What's that?' he asked, pulling away slightly so she could see his face, shining silver in the moonlight.

The knife was cold under her fingers as she rotated it slowly so the blade was pointing towards him and her hand was trembling with anticipation. One hard thrust, one simple movement, and it would be over.

'This,' she breathed and jarred the blade upwards towards his heart.


	4. Chapter 4

_Hello friends! We are back up on schedule, yay! Sorry to leave you all on such a cliffhanger. Originally, it wasn't one, but I did a little re-jiggling of chapters and I just couldn't resist ;) Hope you don't hate me too much! Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this chapter too (I'm pretty proud of it myself) and leave me a review after you've done reading, pretty please? Love you loads!_

* * *

It would have been a perfect kill if the glow from the streetlight above them hadn't reflected off of Clove's knife and into Cato's eye. He blinked, then, realising what was happening, he pushed himself away from her with a shout and jerked to the left. Her blade slipped clean through the air, missing him by miles.

White-hot anger flashed through Clove's mind as she lurched forward, then a cold stab of panic she was unaccustomed to flared in her stomach. _Shit shit shit shit._ Quickly stabilising herself, she spun around under his arm that was just passing over her head, grabbed his wrist and kicked her leg up to catch him in the centre of his chest. Cato stumbled backwards and crashed down onto the pavement, Clove following ontop of him, her knife held over his heart. As soon as she was down, she tucked her legs in by his sides, trying her best to hold him still enough for her to impale the knife into his body but Cato seemed to have regained his wits enough to start fighting back.

'What the hell?' he gasped, writhing from side to side, his hands reaching up to grab her wrists and stop her from stabbing him.

'Just stay still,'Clove hissed vehemently, struggling to bring the blade down.

'What, you think I'm fucking crazy?'

'Just let me kill you!' she grunted, her knuckles turning white with the strain of pressing down on the metal.

'_You're_ fucking crazy!'

With a burst of fearful energy, Cato flung her off of him towards the alley wall. Clove gave a yelp of pain and staggered, her head hitting the bricks hard. She felt dazed, almost as if she was going to pass out, then quickly regained her balance. Her knife had slipped from her grasp. Scrabbling across the ground, Clove snatched it back up and leapt to her feet, ready to leap again, ready to strike – _control, control – _when she heard the click of a gun loading.

Cato was standing in front of her, a shot gun held out in front of him, his finger on the trigger, a small trail of blood trickling down his chin from his nose. Clove breathed out, a low whistle leaking from her lips. Her heart was hammering on the inside of her ribcage so hard she thought her ribs might break from the pressure and let her heart leak out onto the pavement.

'You don't know how to use that,' she said, trying to keep her voice even. _Control._

'You want to bet on that?' Cato replied, cocking his head at her slightly.

No, actually, she didn't. Bets were risky, bets were uncertainty. Bets could allow for mistakes and she had already made way too many of those for one night.

Cato gave a hollow laugh, not bothering to wait for her reply. 'God, why do I always go for the crazy ones? You had to be fucking insane.' He jabbed the gun further in her direction. Clove flinched, her fingernails digging into her skin. 'You had to be insane!' Cato yelled again, hysteria tingeing his words.

Clove shifted the weight of the knife in her palm, calculating. The chances that she could throw it before he pulled the trigger were slim, incredibly slim. Actually, unless somehow she could knock the gun out of his hand before it penetrated his skin, it would be impossible.

Suddenly, she heard a thin wail pierce the night air, cutting through it like her knife had been meant to cut through his flesh. Her head jerked towards the sound, coming from the main road. Sirens! Clove's heart leaped into her mouth and she thought she was going to throw up. _No no no no._ Not here, not now. Someone inside the bar must have heard them and called the police. She had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. She was trapped.

Unexpectedly, Cato turned towards the sirens too, his face contorted with confusion. His grip on the gun slackened. Clove saw her opportunity. She threw the knife she still held in her hand towards the gun. It collided with the sickening sound of metal scraping against metal and Clove turned on her heel, desperate for what might be her only chance of escape.

Cato screamed and she heard a thump; she could only imagine that the knife had sunk into his skin as it fell to the ground, taking the gun with it, but did not have the time to check. As fast as she could, she ran to the dumpster under the wall and grabbed onto the handle, propelling herself ontop of it, her shoes slipping on the cracking plastic.

By the time Cato, gripping his bleeding hand tight to his chest and wincing in pain, had turned around to see where she had gone, Clove had spun over the top of the alley wall and had disappeared into the night.

* * *

Standing in her shower cubicle, Clove turned the water on and let the hot water run over her body and wash away the grime from the previous night. After she had gotten away from the sleazy district she had ended up in with Cato, she had only had the time to strip off her dress and kick off her shoes before she had passed out on her bed in her underwear. When she had woken up ten minutes ago, she had felt impossibly, and incurably, dirty.

The water was pumping out of the shower hot and hard; it was pummelling her skin raw like tiny bullets, like the bullets that could have ended her life the night before. Clove felt her hands tremble as she turned up the temperature.

_Stupid. Stupid, stupid!_ How could she have been so careless, so sloppy? How could she have let this happen? She had never let a kill get away, she always got them, always, every single time. In the past two years, the length of time she had been working for Snow, she had never failed to bring him a body. But this time, this time, she had let her victim slip through her fingers like sand on a beach and she had been unable to grasp back in time to keep some in her palm. Even worse, this time she had nearly let herself killed as well. She had lost control and for that Clove could never forgive herself.

The water was approaching scalding temperature now, but Clove didn't care. The heat was cleansing, it was getting her clean again. And she needed to be clean, especially after what had happened last night. Last night, when, as she had been kissing Cato, as she had let his hands roam across her body and his lips kiss hers, she had felt a deep desire awaken within her and a hunger that ached within her now that she could not suppress. For a moment, back in that alleyway, she had wanted him. And for that, she needed to be cleansed.

Clove turned the water up to its highest temperature and turned so that her back was to the facet and her forehead could rest on the tiles of the shower. A wave of dizziness washed over her, threatening to send her tumbling into oblivion, but Clove grasped onto her consciousness, bringing her hands up to the wall to steady herself. The water was scalding hot now; the water droplets were burning her skin and steam was rising in the cubicle like smoke from a flame. Clove closed her eyes, praying for the dizziness to pass.

She saw him in fractured pieces, like parts of a broken mirror being put back together. She saw his smug smile as he corrected her offensive technique inside the bar, the corner of his mouth pulling up into a sneer.

_Control, control..._

She saw the mole behind his left ear as he bent forward to kiss the back of her neck, his hot, beer-battered breath staining her skin. She saw the small stream of crimson blood, tracing the skin down from his nose to his lip.

_Control._

She saw his eyes, looming above her and laughing. She felt his hand move across her face and pull her towards him, tipping her chin so he could kiss her and, God, she wanted him to, she wanted it so badly...

_CONTROL!_

Clove screamed and whipped her head around to grasp at the controls to turn the shower off. The water stopped and Clove felt a large pressure she hadn't even known was there leave her brain as her soaked hair dripped down her back. Uttering a deep, shuddering sigh, she reached around and rubbed at the back of her neck, trying to slow down her heart rate. _Control._

Straightening up, she pushed open the door to the shower cubicle and groped around on the floor for her towel, as a cold blast of air hit her skin, sending goosebumps shuddering down her shoulders and legs.

_Wait._

Clove froze. There was no way a breeze that strong could be blowing through her apartment. She had locked all the doors and closed all the windows before she had gotten into the shower. There was nowhere for such a wind to come from. A cold rush of fear prickled down Clove's spine.

Her towel forgotten, Clove left the bathroom and walked, cautiously, into the main living space of her apartment. At first glance, all seemed to be as she had left it. The open plan apartment space consisted of a small kitchen, a circular wooden table in what Clove assumed was a dining area but had never used and a sofa and television set next to the window – which was wide open. The front door was also open, but not as wide as the window.

It was only then that Clove noticed the smell. Roses, an overwhelming scent of roses had replaced the sour stench of milk that normally filled the apartment, settling over everything in sight and suffocating the air around Clove.

Sitting on the coffee table next to the sofa was a crystal vase, patterned all over with frosted swirls and patterns, and a white envelope. Inside the vase were five white roses, just opening up their petals to reveal their fragrant insides. Roses, Clove noticed, that had not been de-thorned.

She moved closer to the table, now almost certain that whomsoever had delivered the gift was no longer inside her apartment. The envelope was addressed to her; her name was written on the front in red ink and in the cursive writing that could only belong to Snow. As she ran her finger under the seal, more rose perfume leaked out into the room, followed by a sweet, sickly scent that smelt suspiciously like blood to Clove.

On the paper, ten words were printed in the exact same manner as her name had been: 'Y_ou have five more chances. Otherwise you will be terminated.'_ The letter was signed, quite simply, with the letter S.

Clove stared at the words on the page for several minutes, reading them over, tracing the letters with her thumbnail. Abruptly, she crumbled the letter in her hand and let it slide out of her hand and onto the floor in disgust. Next, she picked up the vase. The roses were perfect, smooth petals unfurling around themselves to reveal that intoxicating scent. For a moment, Clove imagined that the blood scent she could smell was coming from inside the roses. Then, she lifted the vase high and threw it to the floor.

* * *

When his phone rang in his pocket, vibrating onto his chest, Cato nearly jumped out of his skin.

He was sitting in Lincoln Park, on a bench by the zoo, with his laptop on his knees. He had gone there in an attempt to get some work done but instead he had ended up simply staring out at his surroundings. A productive day, then.

An ice cream van, in excellent business, had parked up opposite his bench and Cato had a perfect view of the never ending stream of hot Chicago citizens and holidaymakers desperate for some kind of release from the heat. He watched parents argue with their kids that there was no way they were paying for the triple scoop cone, girlfriends split the lowest calorie sorbet between the two of them, teenagers giddy with independence buying the highest priced ice creams and looking severely disappointed when they didn't turn out as tasty as promised. It made Cato smile.

Cato had become so transfixed on watching the van that, when his phone rang, he had started so hard his laptop had nearly fallen off his lap. He swore under his breath as he pulled it back and, setting the computer safely on the bench beside him, he looked at his phone. It was an unknown number calling, probably some reporter or journalist, searching for a scoop. Normally, Cato would simply decline the call but, after nearly loosing his laptop, he was buzzed to give the son-of-a-bitch a piece of his own mind.

'Now listen here, you fucking piece of no-good communist crap,' he spat into the phone, 'I am giving you five seconds to hang up and lose my number or I swear to go I will call the police and-'

'Wow,' a familiar dry voice remarked on the other end of the line. 'You're gone from your best friend's life for 56 hours and suddenly you're a communist. How 'bout that?'

Cato's words died in his mouth. 'Marv?'

'Obviously.' The crackly line could not hide the grin in Marvel's voice. 'You don't exactly have any other close friends willing to ring you up to check that you're still alive, do you?'

Cato's original relief was replaced by anger. 'Marvel, where the hell are you?'

'Switzerland airport,' came the reply. 'We took like three plane rides here, just to try and throw anyone tracking us off our scent. From here, we're on a straight flight to Paris. Pretty crazy, huh?'

Cato wiped his hand down his face. 'God, yeah. What's it like? Are you and Katie okay?'

'Yeah, yeah, we're cool...' Marvel's voice went muffled. 'No, Kat, just someone from work. Look, go get us some coffee, yeah? Have you got any money?' The line went static and Cato could only make out very few words being exchanged and even then it sounded like he was hearing them from underwater.

'Sorry,' Marvel rejoined the line, his voice getting clearer again.

'It's cool. She okay?'

'Yeah. Yeah, she's okay.' Marvel's voice instantly switched to casual and jokey, as if he was still in his house just ten minutes walk away. 'So, what's going on over there?'

Cato paused for half a heartbeat. 'Some chick tried to kill me last night.'

Marvel's line went silent. 'You're shitting me,' he said, eventually.

Cato gave a harsh laugh. 'I wish I was.'

He gave Marvel a quick recap of the previous nights action, from the moment he had entered the bar to when Clove had disappeared after cutting his hand in an attempt to get him to drop the gun. He also recounted the sirens which had not, as Clove must have thought they would, come storming in to rescue him but had instead kept screaming down the neighbourhood. Cato figured the area was no stranger to police sirens in the dead of night.

The only thing he did not mention to Marvel was the level of attraction he had felt towards Clove, from the moment she had walked into the bar to the last fleeting glance he had had of her hair as she tipped herself over the wall. He did not tell Marvel that he was still feeling the tingle of desire for this girl seeding itself inside him at that very moment.

'Holy shit,' Marvel uttered, once Cato had finished. 'Holy fucking shit.'

'Yeah,' Cato agreed.

'Jesus, Cato...I...I...'

'Am at a loss for words?'

'Did you call the police?' Marvel demanded. 'Are they out looking for this chick? Did you give a statement?'

Cato hesitated, for just a moment too long.

'You didn't call the cops.' Marvel said it as a statement, not a question.

'No,' Cato admitted.

'You didn't call the cops when someone tried to kill you.'

'No.'

'You didn't call the cops when some crazy bitch with knives coming out of her dress tried to kill you in the alleyway behind some sleazy bar at fucking midnight.'

'No.'

'Why the fuck not?'

Again, mistakenly, Cato hesitated.

'Oh, Jesus,' Marvel groaned over the phone. 'Oh God, no.'

'Marv...'

'I knew it! I knew you had some insane sex kink that was going to get you killed someday! Is this why Caitlin Sawer moved school after you fucked her? Was she so weirded out when you asked her to try and knife you under the covers that she could never stand to see your face again?'

'Marv!' Cato snapped, his temper fraying.

'Jesus fucking...' Marvel's voice trailed off. 'Was she hot?' he asked, after a brief pause.

'Yeah,' Cato reluctantly confessed. 'She was really fucking hot.'

'Son of a bitch,' Marvel muttered under his breath. For a while, they both fell silent. 'Do you think she's going to try again?' Marvel eventually continued.

'I have a hunch,' Cato said, rubbing his chin. 'She didn't seem like the kind of girl to give up after only one shot.'

Marvel snorted down the phone. 'I always say, second date sex is the best.'

'This is serious.'

'Says the guy who wants to fuck his assassin.'

Cato couldn't help the smile breaking out from under his hand as he covered his mouth. God, he had missed Marvel. Not that he'd ever let the skinny bastard know that.

'Do you think you can handle this girl? It sounds like she's pretty good at her job.'

'Hey, I've got a few tricks up my sleeve too.'

'Sure you have. Any that might make a fully trained assassin want to fuck you back?'

Cato didn't quite want to admit that he hadn't gotten that far with his planning yet. 'I'm working on it,' he said, breezily.

'Sure. Hey, when you do figure it out, just make sure you're still around to pick up your phone. I want regular updates on this hot, psychopathic bitch and my best friend's freaky turn-ons.'

Cato grinned. 'It's a deal.'

'Hey, I gotta go,' Marvel said, suddenly sounding flustered. 'Out flight just got called and I can't see Katie. I'll talk to you later.'

'Yeah, yeah, sure.'

'And, Cato?'

'Yeah?'

'Stay safe.'

'Got it.'

'Then adios, amigo!' Marvel chirped. 'Paris awaits!'

''Adios' is Spanish, you dumbass.'

'Ah, fuck.'


	5. Chapter 5

_Hi everyone! Again, I am super sorry for how late I am in updating this story, I am terrible, I know. I've been pretty busy recently with school stuff and now I'm in Spain until the beginning of September without my laptop but thanks to Kim's review last night (making me blush as always) I remembered I had a chapter to post and stole my dad's laptop to put it up for you all! This is the longest chapter so far and one I am pretty pleased with. I'm beginning to know where I want to go with this story (always a good sign) but as school is starting back up soon my updates may become slower and less frequent (sorry again). But I am, as ever, so so grateful for all the support you guys have shown for my writing and the lovely reviews you leave after reading. They mean the world, thank you :) Enjoy this chapter!_

* * *

The second time she tried to kill him, she used poison.

Poison is often sneered at in literature and film as being a woman's weapon. Supposedly, this is because it is assumed to be a cowardly means of killing someone, where you don't have to face them straight on and see their face when they die. And naturally, all women are cowards.

Clove had always rolled her eyes at this explaination of the nickname. Personally, she thought poison to be a weapon of stealth, of cunning, a weapon only successfully used by the most intelligent of creatures. Looked at that way, she thought smugly, it was obvious why poison is considered a woman's weapon.

Plus, whoever said you couldn't look someone in the eye as they died from your venom?

She set it up in a rave, in an old abandoned warehouse just south of the river. The guy passing out drinks to the heaving hordes of young people dressed in neon bright colours was already too high to notice as she ran the eyedropper around the rim of the next glass on his table. The poison glowed purple under the UV lights, then faded until it looked like a smear of dust that could have been put there by a fingerprint. With a smile, Clove settled the glass back down on his table and sauntered off into the crowd.

The music was pounding, worse than it had been in that bar the other night. Every time a new beat kicked in, she could feel it move through the building as if it was a part of the infrastructure, the beams holding it together. Take away the beat and the whole place could go tumbling down. The thought of that made Clove shudder.

She should mingle. Shutting her eyes, she allowed the music to seep under her skin and take a hold of her, grabbing her by the gut and pulling with all its strength. Her body started to move, slowly at first but once it caught the rhythm of the other dancers, infectiously seeping off of their sweat-stained clothes, it sped up.

'You move pretty good!' A guy wearing a white vest top and tight jeans was looking at her, a mischievous glint in his eye. His bare arms were painted with whirling, twirling patterns in neon orange that matched the ginger streak in his blonde hair.

'Do I?' Already Clove's body felt flushed. She had dressed as best as she could for the event in order to fit in: her skirt was short and fitted, bright pink and she was wearing a cotton crop top with short sleeves that stuck out a little from her shoulders. But her hair was caught up in a hight pony tail and she was wearing flats; ready to run at any given moment.

'Yeah.' The guy moved closer, biting his bottom lip as he checked her out. 'You look pretty good too.'

Clove's first instincts were to shove this guy right off and keep dancing alone, one eye on the door waiting for _him_ to walk in, the other eyeing her plotted escape route. But, looking into this guy's eyes and seeing them spark with lust, she thought to herself: _Why the hell not_?

Not every hunt had to end in a kill.

'Dance with me,' she ordered and took ginger-streak's hand, pulling him to the corner of the dancefloor. He looped his arm around her front and started to move, swaying to the beat, while keeping his flesh close to hers. Clove leant back into his arms letting herself dance in synchronisation with him, all the while keeping her eyes trailing on the sliding doors of the entrance to the rave.

After maybe two songs, her patience was rewarded. He entered the room like a king returned to his court. Seeing him, her breath caught in her throat and threatened to paralyse her. Within seconds, two girls had descended on him and, when they finally pulled back, his shirt had been ripped off and zigzags in electric red and blue had been painted all over his torso. Clove swallowed, her mouth suddenly dry.

Just as she had predicted, Cato didn't notice her and made straight for the guy selling drinks. She watched them speak and when Cato laughed, his mouth open wide, she saw his teeth glint white. Her eyes were wrenched away as her dance partner swung her around to look at her.

'You have the most amazing eyes,' he told her, but Clove shushed him with a hasty kiss on the lips before spinning herself back into her old position to watch. The guy selling drinks was holding the glass in his hand and dripping in a thick, sticky liquid from a bottle held high above his shoulder. He handed it over the table to Cato, with a brief word. Cato nodded, curling his fingers around the glass. Clove held her breath. _Any second now..._

She watched as Cato lifted the cup to his lips and drank, the glass catching the projected lights as he did so, so that kaleidoscope colours flashed before her eyes. As he pulled the glass away, he finally saw her, dancing in the corner with another man draped around her body. Clove watched his face crumple and his eyes widen and as ginger-streak bend down to press a kiss against her neck, she couldn't help but smirk in Cato's direction. _Gotcha._

Suddenly, an ear-piercing shriek came from the centre of the dancefloor. Clove's head snapped around and ginger-streak's arm slid off her waist as the throngs of people parted. A young girl, maybe nineteen or twenty, had fallen to the floor and her body was jerking back and forwards as if she was having a fit. Another girl who seemed to be her friend was kneeling on the floor trying to hold her still.

'What's wrong with her? What's wrong with her?' she was screaming hysterically.

With a sudden gasp and a splutter of blood, the girl's body went limp in her friend's arms and she fell back down onto the floor. The guy handing out drinks burrowed his way through and crouched beside her, holding two fingers up by her throat.

'She's dead,' he said, sounding slightly numb. As he said it, Clove noticed the cup on the ground next to the girl's outstretched arm: in the glow of the UV lights, the rim of it was stained neon violet. Her blood ran cold.

All of a sudden, chaos had broken out. People were screaming and shoving at one another as they tried to push each other out of the doors as quickly as possible, as if whatever had killed the girl could somehow reach up and strangle them too. Clove stood up slowly, as the world around her seemed to speed up. Her eyes searched the room until they landed on Cato, standing by the door, his shirt scrunched up in his hand. Almost as if he had been waiting for her to see him, his face came to life and he gave a smirk that was a carbon copy of the one she had given him just minutes before and winked. And then he was gone.

'Jeez, that was unexpected,' ginger-streak muttered to Clove. 'We'd better get out of here, make space for the ambulance. Of course, if you're game, I have a flat two blocks away and my room-mate is away...' He turned his head to his left to flash Clove a cheeky grin but found the space under his arm where the girl had been only seconds before completely empty.

The next morning, Clove awoke to four white roses pressed on the pillow next to her head and the stench of blood soaked into her sheets.

* * *

The third time she tried to kill him, she used a gun.

Gun assassinations rarely failed, Clove thought to herself, ontop of the building next to where Cato's company was based. She was sitting cross-legged, with the gun in her lap, calming slotting in the bullets one at a time. With each bullet, she counted a kill. President Kennedy. _Slot_. The Romanov family. _Slot_. President Lincoln. _Slot._ President McKinley. _Slot_. A shit ton of other presidents. _Slot_. Guns, Clove assured her racing heart, never failed.

Wriggling her way down onto her tummy, Clove settled the gun over the rim of the roof, pressing it close to her. When she breathed out, her breath misted up on the cool metal. With the sun beating down onto her exposed shoulders and neck, Clove could feel her body aching from her escape from the rave the night before.

She had ditched ginger-streak and slipped out the back window onto the fire escape, a floor below. At the time, adrenaline had been pumping itself around her bloodstream a-mile-a-minute so she had barely felt her body screaming with pain. Now though, it was crying out for a hot shower and sleep. Angrily, she shifted herself into a more uncomfortable position, hoping that that would help keep her awake.

Luckily, she didn't have to wait for long. At noon on the dot, the revolving doors of the Monroe-Carter block spun in the sunlight and a blonde head appeared. A warmth, beginning in her head, flowed all the way down to Clove's toes. She smiled with relief and flexed her fingers on the trigger. _Finally._

She watched carefully as Cato moved, first to speak to a doorman dressed in black and then to a curly-haired woman with a clipboard and a pen stuck behind her ear. She watched him lean his head close into hers and saw the woman's back arch as she giggled. Clove's hand gripped the gun tighter.

Cato moved away from the building and closer to the road. She could tell just by looking which car was his; it had to be the sleek, black jaguar parked obnoxiously close to the pavement, blocking everyone's path._ Typical._

Clove aimed her shot. Through the chest, swift and sure. A quick, clean death. _Perfection. _Her finger paused on the trigger for just a moment before she pulled.

_Bang!_

The sound was louder than she had anticipated, and the burn from the shot stung her hands. Cato's body jerked back, the keys he had been carrying in his hand fell to the ground. Ecstasy swept through Clove's body with such a rush she felt like she was going to pass out. _Yes! Yes!_

When Cato's body straightened out, though, Clove's stomach knotted. _No. No, that was impossible._ Her eyes scanned his body up and down, frantically. No blood. No collapse. _No._

Fumbling, she brought the gun back up to her eye height and aimed again. _Bang! Bang! Bang! _With each shot, Cato's body jerked a little higher and stayed frozen a little longer. People were screaming and spinning in frantic circles, trying to find out where the shots were coming from. Several had dived for cover and were cowering on the pavement like sitting ducks. Clove could have shot them all if she'd wanted to, shot them all and laughed while doing it, but she only had eyes for Cato. None of the bullets had appeared to have any impact on him at all. Jesus fucking Christ, was the man completely bulletproof?

_Not completely._ Slowly, Cato's body twisted so that he was facing the building she was hiding ontop of. Clove ducked her head down, despite knowing that there was no point hoping he hadn't seen her. Even if he hadn't, he'd know she was there. Inch by inch, Clove let her eyes slide over the top of the roof, her heart firmly rooted in the top of her mouth.

He was watching her, even before she had full vision over the edge of her roof. He was smirking, a smirk that would not have looked out of place on Clove's own face, a smirk that made her insides prickle with that strange, alien longing that made her sick. Tauntingly, he took hold of the insides of his jacket and let it slide to the floor, exposing the light blue shirt he was wearing underneath, now splattered with bullet holes like paint splotches. Clove's mouth ran dry as he reached up to undo the buttons, one by one, to reveal...a bulletproof vest.

Clove could have screamed. As it was, the gun slid out of her sweaty fingers and clattered onto the cement. Cato was laughing at her, shaking his head backwards and forwards as if scolding a naughty, but amusing child. _Oh sweetie. Try again. _He winked at her, before sliding into his car and driving off, leaving his jacket lying on the pavement.

Shaking with anger, Clove snatched up her stuff and shoved it all into her backpack, her fingers digging into the equipment painfully. 'Oh, I'll try again,' she muttered, to no one but the birds flying above her head, listless in the heat. 'I'll try again. Just watch me.'

That evening, Clove had to jam her shoulder into her apartment door to get it open and, once she had, she found three white roses had been slid underneath it, blocking her way.

* * *

The fourth time she tried to kill him, she used somebody else.

A week ago, she would have laughed hysterically if anyone had told her that one day she would use another person to take down her kill. She had been so sure back then, so confident in her own skills and track record. It may have only been a week ago, but something had changed deep inside her since and she would never be the same.

She chose the man carefully, spreading out the pictures on her table and picking up first one card and then another, separating them into piles: the yes pile, the no pile and the maybe pile. Each card must have jumped piles at least a dozen times. Eventually, she selected her weapon. He was from Indonesia, had been in the business for just over five years and was 6"3, probably taller than Cato by an inch or so. It was not much of an advantage in context but, with the man who had managed to elude her so many times, Clove was not taking any chances. She'd take any advantage she was given.

When they met, on the backstreet behind an exclusive club in the centre of Chicago, she didn't tell him her name and he didn't tell her his either. Neither one of them asked and Clove knew it was better this way. The less they knew about each other, the easier it would be to pretend they had never been there if something was to go wrong. Not that anything would go wrong.

They went their separate ways, he to the back of the club to sneak in the door used by the staff and her to the front entrance where she proudly displayed her forged invitation to the doorman. He hardly even looked at it before sweeping the double doors open for her with a swipe of a keycard on an information panel and giving a stiff bow as she stepped through the doors.

Inside, it was like stepping into the pages of a glossy magazine. Chandeliers hung from the cream coloured ceilings and elaborate, fussy wallpaper covered the walls. People were drifting all about, dressed in floaty dresses and light shirts and trousers, speaking in low, humdrum voices as they greeted each other and sipped champagne from frosted glasses. Hard as she could, Clove tried to imagine Cato among this troop of coo-ing doves. It seemed more likely to her that he would strangle them all that slot right in.

She took a drink from a tray passing in front of her nose and sipped from it, trying to act as inconspicuously as possible. She already knew he was here, she had watched him go in twenty minutes ago. The idea had been for him to see all the faces and think that she wasn't there, lulling him into a false sense of security, letting his guard down so that the assassin's assassin could strike. Just thinking about the look of shock he was going to have on his face when he died made Clove smile. Really, she was only there to take pleasure in his face.

From her corner, she spotted Cato, talking to a young girl in a pastel pink dress with fluffy blonde hair. He was using his hands animatedly and she was laughing as she touched his arm, his neck, his back. Clove felt a cold prickle of jealousy tingle down her spine as she watched. She imagined the girl's face with a knife through the centre of it.

Luckily, she didn't have to watch for long. Her accomplice, dressed in the gear of the caterers, came up behind the sickening sight and tapped Cato neatly on the shoulder. They exchanged a brief few words and Clove's accomplice gestured towards the door backing onto the corridors, where various boardrooms and conference centres were. Cato was obviously annoyed at having to leave his pretty acquaintance, but whatever excuse the assassin had come up with had obviously been a good one. Placing his glass down on a table, Cato followed him out of the main hall.

Clove waited a while, tapping her index finger against the fine wineglass nervously. Every second on the ornate grandfather clock next to the bar seemed to last an hour. She counted the seconds under her breath_...forty-nine...fifty..._She had only gotten to one hundred and eleven when she couldn't stand it any longer. Dropping her champagne glass on the table next to Cato's, she followed out of the same door the two men had.

In the corridor, the air conditioning was on full blast. A smart move, she thought to herself with a grin. Cool air would slow the stench of death down long enough for them to get away clean. She turned to the left and began walking down the corridor, counting the rooms as she went: _one, two, three four... _

At the end of the corridor, she turned the corner and saw a pair of black, shiny shoes poking out from behind a storage door. A strange feeling, somewhere between dread and excitement, crept over Clove's heart and for a moment she couldn't breathe. She had done it. Finally, it was over and she had done it. She should have been ecstatic. She should have been laughing and dancing and screaming with joy. Why then did she feel so empty?

She approached the body, slowly putting one foot in front of the other, the luxurious thickness of the carpet beneath her feet muffling any sound her soft-soled shoes were making. Clove felt as if she was in a vacuum; everything had been sucked out of her and everything around her and she was struggling to keep on sucking in every breath.

It was only when she was less than two feet from the body that she felt herself breathe out. The body was wearing black linen trousers and a white shirt with a black waistcoat. He was tall, about 6"3 from what Clove could estimate, and Indonesian. His glazed over eyes, which stared open at the ceiling in horror, were a deep brown. In short, the body was not Cato's.

Clove fell to her knees with a gasp. From the middle of her accomplice's chest, a large red stain was spreading. Shuffling closer, Clove stared at the wound. It was sloppy, not a clean one, and it looked as if the blade had slipped out of it's wielder's hand as it had entered the victim's body. Cato, master at avoiding death as he was, was evidently not the most skilled with knives.

For a while, Clove sat next to the body. There was no point in rushing away, desperately trying to finish the job. Cato had probably left now anyway, sitting in his plush sportscar, chuckling to himself as he wiped the blood off of his hands. _It's a game_, Clove realised with a jolt. _It's all a game to him._ She gave a short bark of laughter, shaking her head blindly.

Then, she slipped her hand down her assassin's waistcoat to find the pocket where she had watched him stash the six thousand dollar bills before they had gone in. Carefully, she tucked the notes down her own dress, making sure they were secure before she stood up.

_It might still be a game for him_, she thought. _But I'm done playing._

* * *

As she locked her front door before going to bed that evening, she found two white roses taped to the back of it, with red ribbons trailing down her door like blood spills from a dead body.


	6. Chapter 6

_Hi everyone! So once again I am the absolute worst for not updating sooner, I am so so sorry about that. I'm back at school now so updates are likely to be slower than they have been (if that is even possible? I'm trash) so again super sorry about that. To make up for it, here is a very loooong chapter which I hope you will all like! If you do, I would be eternally grateful for any reviews you want to leave. It makes me so happy reading the ones I have and inspires me to keep writing this story. Thank you all so much for your patience! (By the way, has removed the 'insert line here' thingie from their formatting?)_

_Lots of love, Isabelle xx_

The fifth time she tried to kill him, she decided to return to the knives.

They were her old favourite weapon, the tools she had learnt to kill with. There was nothing, nothing she was more comfortable with resting in the middle of her palm, the silver hilt glinting in the sunlight and the edge of the blade pointed and sweet, ready to kill. Clove took pride in her knives, pride in keeping them sharp and shining and ready to move at any moment in time. And, up until the night she had first tried to kill Cato, they had never failed her.

_Well,_ she thought to herself as she tucked them one by one into the inner pockets of her leather jacket, testing the blade edge of one on her middle finger, _now you're getting a second chance._

She scrapped the idea of killing him in a public place. Normally, she favoured making her kill somewhere busy, with a lot of distractions, because it made for a confusing set of circumstances and also made it easier for her to slip away in all the commotion. Cato Monroe, however, had not presented himself as a normal kill.

She knew where he lived, of course. It had been one of the first nuggets of information she had skimmed over the day Snow had handed her the piece of paper with his face on; number 23 Kensington Heights, on Alison Avenue. She had it memorised, imprinted in her brain like a tattoo. As she made her way down the neatly lit street, her hair bouncing off her back, the address pounded around her mind, reciting in time with her steps. Number 23. Kensington Heights. Alison Avenue. By the time she took a left off of the main street and into the sleek, high class housing development, she was muttering the words under her breath.

In a particularly bold move, she entered the building through the main door, a doorman dressed in black holding the door open for her and giving her a curt nod of the head. Inside the main lobby of the apartment block, the building was decorated in a minimalistic fashion Clove could only admire begrudgingly; abstract art in cool grey tones on the white walls, smooth, black boards of flooring and neat, curving furniture tucked in corners about the lobby. Declining the lift, Clove took the stairs two at a time to the twenty-third floor.

The stairs let her out onto a narrow corridor, an almost exact copy of the lobby décor just in a smaller, narrower size. The only exception being a potted plant drooped in the corner. Cato's front door was black, with the number 23 written in silver at the top. For a moment, Clove stared at it, imagining Cato coming home from any number of nights out, his jacket hanging over his arm and his blonde hair tousled. She imagined him digging his hands in his pocket for his key and struggling to fit it in the lock, the scent of liquor still lingering on his shirt. When she inhaled, she could have sworn she could almost smell it.

Clove took a deep breath._ Enough. _

Before she could change her mind, she took out the security camera aimed at the door with a flick of her wrist and a slice of a knife and strode over to the door and gave three hard raps to the wood. The door opened almost before she had pulled her knuckle away from it, almost as if it had been waiting for her knock. Unease churned in Clove's stomach. Something wasn't right.

She opened her jacket and took out a knife. It wasn't her favourite; she had lost that the first night she had tried to kill Cato back in the alleyway behind the bar. She had gone back for it the next morning but it had gone. This was a good knife though, it weighed heavy in her palm but didn't burden her fingers and the blade was sharp and clean. It was a blade that could kill.

Cautiously, Clove took a step inside Cato's apartment, and then another, and another, keeping her feet light and ready to jump. The pads of her fingers touched the grip on the knife as loosely as she could manage without losing control of the blade. She kept her breathing even.

Cato's apartment was not unlike the rest of the building Clove had seen so far. Everything was open plan, the kitchen, living room and dinning room bleeding seamlessly into one another, the floor was polished black oak and the leather furniture followed smooth lines and curves. There were small differences though; small things that stood out, made it different, caught Clove's sharp eye. T-shirts and socks bunched together under the couches, dirty plates and wine glasses with red rims scattered on the floor. Out of habit, she wrinkled her nose up in disgust. _Men were such pigs._

No sooner had the thought left her mind, Clove's ears pricked up as she heard a slight rustle behind her, like a tiny lizard scurrying through a flurry of leaves. When the door slammed, Clove knew she had hesitated just a split-second too long.

She whipped her head around and brought her knife up only to have something hard slam into her wrist and the blade went spinning out of her grasp. Gasping, Clove ducked down and thrust her head forward so it hit into the chest of her attacker. He stumbled backwards and Clove, giving a short exclamation of delight, lifted her leg up to deliver a kick to the floor. Just as her foot was about to connect with his chest, her opponent's hand closed around her ankle and gave it a sharp tug towards him. With a shriek, Clove's remaining leg fell out from under her and she crashed to the ground.

Immediately, her body pushed forward, trying to get her legs up under her again so she was back on her feet, so she was in control again, but her attacker knocked her knees out of the way. Something cold was pressed against her neck and Clove gasped as, even with her head pressed back so she was staring at the ceiling, she recognised the object as a knife blade.

Her eyes flicked down her body and her heart leapt into her mouth when she saw the knife hilt tucked under her chin. _But...that's mine._

Standing above her, his blonde hair lit up by the light-bulb behind his head like a halo, Cato gave a low chuckle, his teeth white and his eyes bright.

'About time,' he said. 'I was wondering what was taking you so long.'

Cato sat on his low couch in his shiny, self cleaning apartment and twisted the top off of another beer bottle. He tossed the cap onto the glass coffee table in front of him and listened to the metallic clatter as tin collided with glass.

The cap came to rest next to the knife. _The knife_. Cato couldn't help a thin smile spread over his lips as he looked at the knife, lying innocently on his coffee table. He lifted the beer to his lips and drank, still smiling. Her knife, the knife she used when she had first tried to stab him in the back in that godforsaken alleyway. He had picked it up after she had vanished over the wall and turned the blade over and over in his hand, marvelling at the way the polished silver caught the dim light of the streetlamps. It had reflected his face back at him like a mirror when he looked down at it, but a mirror that distorted his features and cracked his skin. When he had run his finger down the side of the blade, it had left a red trail of blood on his fingertip. In all honesty, he had initially only taken it with him to piss her off, but, as the days went on and she kept coming back, he began to think of it as a homing beacon. He had denied her something she wanted and she was insisting on tracking it down and taking it back.

He saw her coming down Alison Avenue, her dark hair swinging across her back and her dark clothes almost masking her in the black of the evening, and watched as she headed up the stairs into the building. _It had taken her long enough_. He took a last drink from his bottle and tossed it onto the white shag rug; a last trickle of beer spilled from the neck and dripped miserably onto the fabric. Cato picked up the knife from the table and let it bounce in his palm before grasping it. He had been testing out holding it in front of the mirror in his wardrobe; trying to copy Clove's movements with it, figuring out where to position it in relation to his body. He was no where near as skilled as she had been, he wasn't stupid enough to kid himself that, but he was good enough.

Cato tucked himself behind the alcove to the right of the door and waited. To his surprise, the feel of the ridges of the knife grip under his fingers was oddly comforting.

When she pushed open the door, Cato's breath caught in his throat like the poison she had intended for him at the nightclub. A rectangle of light cut through the gloom onto the floor and her silhouette appeared in black onto it. As she took slow step after step (cautious, always cautious, Cato liked that about her) into his apartment, Cato was able to see her from the back. Her dark hair was pulled tightly up in a high ponytail and it fell, sleek and sheen, down her back. She was dressed entirely in black; tight trousers, a leather jacket and black boots. The clothes managed to fit her in a way that made them look as if they had been shaped to her body and melded into her skin. Cato swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.

Once Clove was far enough into the apartment, he slid out from the alcove, holding his breath. He had removed his shoes and socks earlier, so his bare feet padded across the floor as softly as they could. It was not softly enough.

When he saw her neck tense up, her body freeze, he knew he had blown it. Quickly, he kicked his leg backwards to slam the door shut and jumped forward just as Clove whipped her head around and raised her knife hand. He reached up to grab it before she could swing and sent the blade tumbling to the floor. With the edge of his foot, he kicked it out of reach.

Clove recovered from her surprise pretty fast. Within milliseconds, she had bent double and rammed her head into his chest. Cato gasped as he toppled backwards and heard Clove give a small shriek of delight. Gritting his teeth, he regained his balance, just as Clove's foot appeared in front of him. Cato grabbed her ankle as it jutted towards him and twisted it, not hard, but hard enough to send her spiralling to the floor. Cato dropped to his knees, straddling her body and pushed her legs back down as she tried to get up. When her chin lifted, he used the flat side of her knife to force her head back onto the ground. The little gasp of shock she gave as she recognised the blade filled Cato with a warmth, spreading from his head to his toes. He laughed in spite of himself.

'About time,' Cato said. 'I was wondering what was taking you so long.'

She glared up at him. 'Get the fuck off me.'

'Yeah, not likely.'

'I swear to God, if you don't-'

'What are you going to do?' Cato asked, a chuckle bubbling in his throat. 'Kill me?'

'I've been trying to all week!'

'No offence, but you're not very good at it.'

She spat in his face.

Instinctively, Cato brought his hand up to wipe his face. As soon as his fingers had moved away from pinning down her wrist, Clove brought it up and slammed his other hand away from her neck. Cato yelped in pain and arched his back away from her. Clove took the opportunity to pull her legs up from under him and slammed her body weight into his side, sending him toppling over. Within a few seconds, she had utterly inverted their positions so she was sitting ontop of him, victory shining on her face. _She looks beautiful from above_, Cato thought, before reaching up to toss her off him by the neck of her jacket.

Clove went flying back so she crashed into the door, the knife still clenched in her fist. Quickly, Cato scrambled to his feet and retrieved the knife he had kicked away before Clove had the chance to leap at him again.

She stopped in her tracks, her chest heaving under her black t-shirt. Cato grinned at her, twisting the knife so the light bounced off it, drawing attention to its presence.

'Even Stevens,' he said, trying to keep the pride out of his voice and failing.

Clove sneered at him. 'Not exactly,' she said, tilting her head slightly. 'I've been using knives for at least a decade longer than you. I _think_ I could use one better than you could.'

'Yeah, but if you factor in my far superior size and weight and I think we're pretty evenly matched.'

Clove laughed once. 'You wish. Whoever said bigger was better?'

'I was under the impression that that was the general consensus.' He could have sworn he saw her roll her eyes at him in the half-dark.

'What, I'm not your type?' he teased, raising an eyebrow at her.

'You're not my type.'

'I'm everyone's type.'

'Not mine.'

'I was your type back in the bar. In the alleyway.' _Or do you not remember?_ Cato could remember. He remembered her hands on his body, her mouth inside his. It made his skin tingle.

Clove scoffed. 'That's a technique. God, are you really that up yourself? I lured you out there to kill you. And you fell for it, just like the rest of your hacker friends.'

Cato froze. 'That's how you killed them? Flirted with them, lured them away and stabbed them in the back? Jackson and the others?' He wrinkled his nose. 'Even Jasmine?'

Clove rolled her eyes again. 'Yes, that's how I did it. And yes, even Jasmine.' In the dark, he saw her smile wickedly, showing off her pearly teeth. 'Actually, she and I both enjoyed that one the most.'

'You're a bitch.'

'And you're infuriatingly stubborn.' She flexed her knife hand. 'Now just let me kill you and then we can both get on with our lives.'

'Well I fucking couldn't because I'd be dead.'

She waved her free hand. 'Technicalities.'

Cato tightened his grip on the knife. 'Yeah, well, I'm not ready to die today.'

Clove smiled at him, tipping her head sadly to the side, as if she was already picking out the colour of his coffin. 'They never are.' And then she pounced.

Cato caught her wrist as she flung her body at him and twisted it, hard, in a vain attempt to get her to drop the knife. She screamed in pain and brought her teeth down into his flesh. Cato yelped and found that his knife had slipped out of his sweaty palm and onto the floor. Desperately, he tried to push her back, but Clove had locked her knees around his middle so that they were chest to chest with her knife pressed between their two hearts. Breathless, Cato watched Clove's knuckles whiten on the blade and her eyes gleam victoriously before she looked up at him. He saw the victory shining in her eyes dim and something else flash across her face – regret? Sadness? Cato felt her grip on the knife slacken.

With one hand, he reached up and smacked it backwards, sending the blade spinning in an arc into the air, and thrust his body backwards. He and Clove tumbled over the back of the couch and landed with a sickening crack on the glass coffee table. Cato heard her gasp.

'You don't want to kill me,' he said firmly.

'I have to,' she said breathlessly and began struggling in his arms.

'But you don't want to,' Cato insisted, fighting against her punches.

She slammed the base of her palm into his chest. 'How the hell did you reach that conclusion?'

He caught her wrist before she could claw at his neck and held it. She stopped fighting and glared up at him, a trickle of blood sliding down from her nostril to her top lip. Cato licked his lips. 'You hesitated,' he said.

And then he kissed her.


	7. Chapter 7

_Just so you all are aware, I am not especially proud of this chapter. Kiss/sex/intimate scenes are not a great strong point of mine, having no experience of my own and being desperate to avoid clichés. Normally, I want to have my chapters utterly perfect before I post them but this time I just couldn't work on it anymore, so I apologise in advance for this pretty crappy chapter. Hopefully it's just a blip :) I'm also sorry for getting slack with updating but I have lots of work for school again and lessons after school as well so I am not able to write as much as I want to anymore either. Ah, the joys of sixth form! Also just as an fyi, I am incredibly distressed by the removal of the break line on formatting. I think that's it for this long and annoying a/n so, yeah, enjoy this chapter and thank you for sticking with me._

_**[BREAK]**_

Clove had kissed people before. She had kissed boys before and she had kissed girls before. Hell, Clove had even kissed _Cato_ before. But she had never, ever kissed anyone like this. Every time she had kissed a person before, they had ended up dead; it was a part of her job. She kissed to kill. This time though, she was kissing to live.

She could remember what kissing Cato had been like from back in the alleyway; she remembered the shape of his lips and the bitter taste of alcohol on his tongue and the roughness of the slight stubble on his upper lip and chin bristling against her skin. She also remembered the unfamiliar longing that had rooted itself in the pit of her stomach as he had pinned her to the wall and the ache his touch had left on her skin. She remembered how she hadn't wanted him to stop.

Well, now he wasn't.

The first kiss he left on her lips had been a light as a feather, so soft she only knew it happened because she had watched his head dip down to hers. If she hadn't, she might have thought a butterfly had brushed against her mouth instead, but no, it had been Cato, and he had kissed her with a touch far gentler than she could have ever imagined. And she wanted more than that.

With her fingers, she grabbed onto the cuffs of his sleeves and pulled, hoping to make him bend back down to her. He didn't need much persuading. This time, as Cato's lips moved towards hers, Clove opened herself up to him. Their mouths slotted into one another as if falling into a rhythm as old as their heartbeats and Clove felt goosebumps run down her spine until she shivered. Eagerly, she twisted her body so it paralleled with his and Cato's hand left her wrist and came up to cradle the back of her head, drawing her closer to him.

He tasted of beer and she tasted of blood but to Clove nothing had ever tasted better. She was slipping away, slowly tumbling out of her comfort zone, out of reach. She was losing control and she could not have cared less. For what might have been the first time in her life, Clove felt whole.

Cato's hands suddenly moved, from behind her her neck to the small of her back and lifted her forwards as he knelt back on his heels. Clove moved with him, their bodies mirroring each other just as they had been in the stand off, just minutes before. _A lot can change in a few minutes_.

As their lips pulled apart for a second, allowing for both of them to catch one quick, gasping breath, Clove lurched forwards to wrap her arms around Cato's neck and he kissed her again, his teeth biting down on her bottom lip. Eagerly, Clove's mouth responded to his and she felt her entire body fizz with endorphins and she let out a deep, shuddering sigh without fully realising it.

'Wow,' she whispered.

'Wow?' Cato gave her a smirk, half his face lit by the light from the single bulb above their heads. 'Now there's something a guy likes to hear.'

'I bet there are lots of things you'd like to hear,' Clove retorted, kissing him again, hard.

'I like you better when you're not killing me.'

'I like you better when you're kissing me.'

'That can be arranged.' Their lips collided again and Clove felt a surge of that churning feeling deep in the pit of her stomach that tugged and twisted and made her want to get even closer to Cato, as close as possible. Her hands locked into his hair.

'Cato,' she mumbled, his lips still half joined with hers.

'Mmm?' He kissed her chin, her nose, her eyelids. _God_.

'I still have to kill you.'

'I'm hoping not right now.'

She couldn't help but laugh, a giddy, light-headed laugh that bubbled up from her stomach and pressed into Cato's skin. _God, when was the last time she had laughed like that? Had she _ever_ laughed like that?_

'I guess I could stand not to kill you right now,' she whispered.

'Good,' he growled. He was showering her in kisses now, she had never been touched so much before in her life and she wanted more, more, her body was aching for more.

Clove pulled her body back from Cato and caught his face in her hands. His eyes were wild with energy and his breath was coming out in short, sharp exhalations. Against her chest, she could feel his own rising and falling swiftly. 'I want you,' she said, and it came out as an order, not a statement, not a request, an order. 'Now.'

'I thought I wasn't your type,' he teased, his hand running up the back of her shirt.

'I don't have a type,' Clove scoffed, then gasped as his hand found her bra strap.

'Sure about that?'

'I don't have a type,' Clove insisted. 'I have you.'

Cato's hand froze on her back; his fingers were cold against the heat of her skin. He looked at her for a moment, then laughed softly, under his breath. Then, he jumped to his feet, pulling Clove up with him so they were standing toe to toe. Her head came only up to the top of his chest. Before Clove knew what had happened, Cato had lifted her up to his eye level with two hands under her armpits and she had wrapped her legs around his waist, locking him to her. He kissed her once more, his fingernails digging into the flesh of her thighs and Clove felt like her body was going to burst.

'You have me,' Cato whispered into her ear, then carried her through into his bedroom.

_**[BREAK]**_

'Did it happen?'

'Yes, sir.'

'When?'

'About an hour ago, sir. The security cameras we placed in the vicinity of the apartment block show her entering the building at seven minutes past eleven tonight.' His assistant, a pale, languid young man with cropped mousey hair, hesitated. 'She is yet to leave the building, sir.'

Sitting in his chair by the window of his office, Coriolanus Snow smiled, a thin, cold smile that stretched the skin around his lips back and never reached his eyes. _At last_. He had been waiting for this for days. _Small wonder she held out, really, _he thought to himself, bringing his hand up to stroke his beard. At best, he had approximated that it would take him two days, maybe even three, to secure her; never had he expected her to hold out for almost a week. _She's stronger than she looks._

Out of the window, he could see the lights of the city, standing out against the stark colours of the Chicago buildings like stars on an ink black sky. Car headlights moved fluidly across the roads like fireflies and the neon signs downtown flashed in bright colours, announcing offers and shows and specials at the Mexican buffet, still glowing at just after midnight. _The city never sleeps_. But somewhere in the city, Snow knew, were Cato and Clove. Might even be that they were looking at out the lights too, just like he was. For some reason, he found that amusing. He might even have laughed, if he thought he still had the capability. Luckily, he didn't.

'It's all a game,' he said, more to himself than anyone else.

'Sir?' The pale-faced assistant stood hovering, his clipboard clutched to his chest.

'A game,' Snow repeated, slowly.

'I don't understand.'

'No, you wouldn't.' _And neither do they_. He cleared his throat. 'You know what to do?'

'Yes, sir.'

'Good.' Snow reached out and opened a drawer. He had very few things in his office; large as it was, most of the space was completely unnecessary. Most of the cabinets and shelves were empty. In this drawer, however, he did keep a few items: a gold pocket watch he disliked wearing on his wrist, a pack of chewing gum and a gun. 'That will be all.'

The assistant gave a hesitant bow from the waist and scurried back to the door as fast as his skinny legs could carry him. _Fool_. Snow shook his head, nose wrinkled distastefully. From the drawer, he took out a stick of gum and, unwrapping it, put it on his tongue and bit down. A peculiar taste for chewing gum, he mused, but one that he had come to almost enjoy. Rose, he thought, with the bitter undertaste that might have been blood.

_It's all a game_, he thought, chewing on the gum. But it was _his_ game. And he would be the only winner.

_**[BREAK]**_

Cato hadn't slept so well in weeks.

Normally, his sleep was punctuated with fits of insomnia and dreams that left his sheets drenched in a cold sweat and his heart thumping; when that happened, Cato would get up and go play on one of the many game consoles in the living room or take a hot shower and let the water wash away the pounding in his brain. This morning, though, he woke at dawn, to the sounds of birds singing in the trees on Alison Avenue and Clove's arms wrapped around his stomach.

Cato froze, straining his ears to hear if he had woken her, but Clove's breathing remained even and low. Grinning, he felt his body relax and he lay there for a minute or so, relishing in the feeling of the sheets tangled up between their legs and the strength with which Clove's arms held him from behind. He couldn't look at her face, but he could feel her forehead pressing into his shoulderblade and the curve of her body fixed into his back, like the missing piece in a jigsaw puzzle. It gave him a feeling of completeness, being able to feel her being there. She was tangible. He liked that.

Carefully, Cato reached down and unclasped Clove's hands from his stomach. She mumbled something in her sleep and shifted closer to him. Cato breathed in shallowly and felt the heady sweet stench of her fill his nostrils. _Jesus Christ_. Gently, Cato let his hands run over the fine hairs on her forearms as he shimmied out of her reach. Clove's arms slipped down onto the mattress as Cato slid off the bed; her hands clutched out at thin air and ended up snatching at the sheets. She sighed contentedly.

Cato could have quite easily stood staring at her all day. She looked especially tiny, curled up like a cat in the middle of his bed, her dark tangle of hair striking against the pure white of the sheets and pillows, and vulnerable in a way he had never seen her look before. Somehow, it made her even more desirable to him, which really just made everything even more fucked up.

He hadn't intended on letting it get this far. Nor had he thought that he would fall for Clove quite so hard and quite so fast. When Snow had approached him the week before, with a small, slim file on his best, and most dangerous, assassin, Cato had considered it a welcome challenge. Normally, his targets were men older than himself, or hard, pursed-lipped women who looked at him like a slab of meat; a young girl with lethal tendencies would certainly make a change, he had thought when he had accepted the assignment. Especially when she was hell-bent on taking him down herself.

Sighing, Cato forced himself to turn away from the bed and took cautious steps around the piles of clothes they had discarded on the carpet the night before, taking care not to make any noise that could wake Clove. _Clove_. He gritted his teeth at the thought of her as he moved into the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush. _What the hell was he going to do with her?_

She'd said she still had to kill him. Problem was, he still had to kill her too. And yet Cato could still feel the pressure of her lips tingling on his, still smell her perfume lingering on his skin and he liked it. He really fucking liked it. _God, what a mess_, he thought, scrubbing the brush viciously around his mouth. _What a fucking mess_. Why the hell had he let himself get in this fucking deep? Cato spat out into the sink and watched the foam slither down the sink, stained pink with blood from where his gums had bled.

'Cato?'

He jumped at the sound of his name, and whirled around. Clove stood in the doorway, only wearing her black t-shirt and underwear, her hair falling down onto her shoulders . She even looked beautiful this early in the morning, a feat Cato, who had woken up next to lots of girls, hadn't even thought was possible.

'Hey.' He grinned at her. 'Sleep well?'

'When I was sleeping.' She crossed her arms over her chest, a defensive gesture he recognised as typical of Clove. 'Did you?'

'Like a log.'

She smiled and walked towards him. Cato closed his eyes as she pressed her lips to his and didn't even mind when the bitter taste of her mouth mingled with the mint of his toothpaste. He kissed her back eagerly.

'Stop.' Clove pushed him back. 'Enough.'

A little indignant, Cato drew back from her and wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. 'You started it.'

'Well, I'm ending it.' Clove sighed and ran her hand through her hair. 'God, this is fucked up.'

'You're telling me,' Cato muttered, just soft enough for her not to hear.

'I'm leaving,' Clove decided and span around back into the bedroom.

Cato's head snapped around. 'What?' He hurried out after her. 'Why?'

Clove was hurrying around the bedroom like a miniature whirlwind, gathering her clothes up in her arms. 'Look,' she said briskly, stuffing her legs into her trousers, 'I think it's best if we forget last night ever happened.'

'All of last night?' Cato could have sworn he saw her cheeks flush red under her dark curtains of hair.

'All of it.'

Fully dressed, Clove strode into the hall, pulling her hair up into a ponytail as she went. Cato followed at her heels, not ready to let her go just yet.

'Thought you had to kill me,' he taunted.

'I do.'

'So do it.'

'I can't!' she snapped, whirling around to face him, anger spitting in her face. She seemed to regret her words as soon as they left her lips. 'I mean, not right now,' she recovered. 'I will.' A ferocious expression appeared on her face. 'I _will_ kill you.'

'I don't doubt it,' Cato murmured, reaching out to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. Clove slapped his hand away and pulled open his front door.

'You'd better keep your eyes open, Mr Monroe,' she warned, and walked out of the apartment without looking back, letting the door slam in Cato's face after her.

Cato stood for a moment, staring at the wood in front of him, trying to catch his breath. 'Yeah,' he whispered to the empty room, which suddenly seemed so cold now she had left. 'And so had you.'

He turned on his heel and headed back into the bedroom once more, scratching at the scabs on the back of his neck, the only evidence left that Clove had been there at all. Halfway through the door frame, he froze and felt his heart drop all the way down to the floor.

The bed looked almost exactly as they had left it; sheets half flung off the end and the pillows tossed to one side. However, now there rested, propped up against the headboard, a single red rose wrapped in white paper and tied with a matching white ribbon. A white card lay next to the rose, his name written on in red, cursive ink. Across the room, the window was flung open wide, curtains fluttering in the wind and the cool, early morning breeze blew through the room, ruffling the bedding. A deep shiver ran down Cato's spine.

He picked up the letter, already guessing what would be written on it. Snow did not disappoint.

_One more chance_, the letter read. _It's her or you_.

Cato must have stared at the letter for several minutes before he realised his hands were shaking and his breath was coming out in heaving gulps. Before he knew what he had done, the sheet in his hands had been ripped to shreds of white and red beneath his fingertips and his legs were moving towards the open window. He meant to throw the tiny pieces of paper as far as he could, but they just ended up drifting through the gaps in his fingers and he watched them fall down onto the street below, like snowflakes.

Turning back into his room, Cato gave his dresser an almighty kick and sank down onto the edge of his bed, his head in his hands.

_What a fucking mess_, he thought. _What an absolute fucking mess._


	8. Chapter 8

_So, first off, I have to say the biggest, most grateful thank you of this story so far. I was so nervous and insecure about that last chapter that I wasn't sure whether I even wanted to continue this story but your reviews and favourites just made me so happy and so so grateful that I just...I can't say thank you enough, really. You guys are the best and it makes me so happy that you like this story. Seriously, thank you. I am planning for maybe two or three more chapters after this, depending on how the breaks go. I guess you would call this a 'filler' chapter but I hope it's interesting enough anyway. I hope you all like it!_

**[BREAK]**

The last day Clove had before she had to kill Cato started dull and murky but with steadily rising temperatures. Throughout the city, heat waves were simmering across the roads and windows of offices were being flung open wide, a last desperate attempt in a fruitless search for relief from the stifling heat. As Clove's feet pounded the pavement in front of her in her black high heeled boots, she could feel the loose strands of hair swinging from her ponytail cling to the back of her neck with sweat. The heat wasn't just stifling, she thought to herself. _Its suffocating me_.

It had been just past six in the morning when she had stormed out of Cato's apartment, heart pounding and mind reeling. It had been just before seven when she had whirled back into her own box flat to find a single rose, its stem tainted red, pinned to her front door and the stench of blood infringing every inch of her home. It had been seventeen minutes past seven when she had hurled herself back out into the hallway, still pulling her shirt down over her ribcage, letting the door bang shut behind her. Now, as it was approaching eight am, less than two hours after she had left Cato's arms, Clove found herself hurrying up the front stairs of the Capitol building for the second time in a week.

The second her feet met the clean white floor, Clove knew something was wrong. On the surface, everything looked as it usually did: impeccably clean surfaces, cool air blowing out of every vent in the vast reception and the same, brain-dead Capitol employees drifting around dressed head to toe in white and carrying those godforsaken clipboards. But even so, it _felt_ different; the entire feel of the place was different. There was something in the air, a feeling Clove was all too familiar with, not from personal experience but from her hunts. _Fear_. Inside her chest, Clove's heart quickened in panic, its beats fluttering like a startled bird trapped in a cage. Subconsciously, she placed her hand up to her chest to still it. _Control._

Steeling herself, she marched up to the reception desk and slammed her palm onto the polished wood. The pearly teethed receptionist who had been there the week before was gone, replaced instead by another equally attractive young woman, whose mahogany coloured skin and eyes clashed strikingly with the crisp white of her suit. Clove swallowed the bitter bile jealousy had brought into her throat. She wondered if Cato would kiss this girl the same way he had kissed her last night. _Stop_.

The receptionist jumped at the sound of Clove's hand slapping her desk and the pen she had been writing with slipped out of her sweaty palm.

'I'm here to see Coriolanus,' Clove snapped, trying not to revel in the fright on the girl's flawless face and failing miserably.

'He doesn't-' the girl began to stammer out, her eyes wide, as she scrambled for the pen before it rolled off the table.

'I know he doesn't normally see people,' Clove interrupted, her patience starting to wane, 'I know he doesn't like to have people turn up unannounced but trust me...' She leant forward over the desk and could have sworn the girl had just soiled her designer underwear. 'He'll. See. Me.'

The receptionist didn't even bother to argue, just nodded. 'If you go...' she squeaked, pointing a shaking finger in the vague direction of the elevator, but Clove stopped her.

'I know the way.' She flung the words back over her shoulder like a knife as she spun back into the centre of the lobby towards the elevator.

Her journey up to Snow's office was just the same as always. The soft, chrome of the elevator. The strained cords of 'Don't Stop Believing' playing. The thin white corridor with the eye height identification panel. The frosted crystal rose on the door. Clove breathed shallowly through her nose as her fingers hesitated on the door handle. _Control._ She opened the door.

Snow was sitting behind his desk, the papers he was looking at blindingly white against the deep black of the wood. For a flash, fleeting moment, Clove imagined she saw surprise register in his eyes as he saw her, but it was quickly replaced by the same, cool indifference that always seemed to reside behind his pale irises.

'Clove,' he said, setting his pencil down. 'I wasn't expecting you.'

'Thought you could do with a nice surprise,' Clove replied dryly, taking long strides across the office until she was standing directly opposite him on the other side of the desk. Trying to stop her hands from shaking, she set them firmly on the cold edge of the desk and leant forward, her body straining against her shirt. 'I want out.'

Snow regarded her with a cold glare, his light eyes flitting over her body in a way that made Clove distinctly uncomfortable, though she would rather have died than let him know that. 'You want out? Of the assignment?'

'Out of everything!' Clove snapped, her knuckles tightening on the desk. 'I'm done.'

Snow shook his head and folded his hands across his chest. 'I'm afraid that is not possible.'

'Bullshit!' Clove shrieked and with one fluid movement, swept her hand across the desk, sending the papers Snow had been working on flying off the edge. Snow didn't even blink. Furiously, Clove slammed her fist down into the wood, ignoring the pain that screamed into her elbow from the impact.

'You told me,' she hissed, staring directly into Snow's eyes, 'you told me when I started picking off the people you deemed fucking elimination worthy that when I wanted out, I could get out. Well,' she stood back and spread her arms wide, adrenaline pumping through her body at a speed she had never felt before. 'This is me. Wanting out.' This time, she did not even bother to conceal her trembling fingers.

Snow had been watching her, his hands frozen on his jacket, his head slightly cocked to the left. He did not look afraid, or angry, or even slightly concerned. He looked, thought Clove with a shudder, like he was made completely of ice.

'You are quite right,' he said mildly, getting out of his chair and moving around to collect up his papers. 'I did indeed tell you that you could get out whenever you wanted. And I am a man of my word.'

Clove exhaled deeply. _God. Thank God. Thank fucking God._ Her fingers were still trembling but now she felt like laughing and had to duck her head to hide her irrepressible giggles. Had it really been that easy?

_Apparently not._

The tell-tale click of a pistol being cocked made Clove's heart skip a beat. She raised her head, slowly, and found Snow standing next to her, a silver handled pistol in his right hand, pointed directly at her skull. Clove's mouth went dry and she felt like her chest was going to burst. _Holy shit._

'Did you really think,' Snow said calmly. 'That after I had let you be privy to my secrets, allowed you to come into direct contact with the inner workings of the Capitol system, set you out to take down – as you so called them – the people I deemed fucking elimination worthy, I would simply allow you to walk back out into the normal world?'

Clove bit her lip. Had she? Had she really been so blindingly trusting? So shockingly stupid and naïve?

'You have two options,' Snow continued. Clove watched his body desperately for any moments, anything she could possibly use to twist him around and gain the upper hand. He made none; he might as well have been an ice statue. 'One: say the word and I will let you out. I will pull the trigger and you will be officially released from your contract. Easy.'

Clove wondered if that was what happened to every Capitol employee who wanted out of the corrupt, shiny world Coriolanus Snow had created. Had the pearly-teethed receptionist met the same fate? _I had imagined what she would look like with a slit throat_. Clove felt sick to her stomach.

'Your other option, and by far the more favourable for me, is to walk out of this room and complete your assignment by the end of the day. Have Mr Monroe taken down and I will allow you to walk away from this unscathed. Fail, and you will both be taken down.' His finger flexed on the trigger. Clove tensed. 'As I hope you can see,' Snow continued, recognising her discomfort. 'There is really only one option.'

_Yes_. Clove swallowed, her original fear now being replaced by blinding white fury. 'I see,' she said, forcing her voice to remain steady. 'I will complete the assignment.'

Snow gave her a rare smile, one that stretched with a strain from one side of his mouth to the other. 'I'm glad. Good assassin are so hard to find, nowadays.' He took a step back, but kept the gun levelled at her head.

Mentally, Clove began running down her options in her head. She could duck down, twist and grab the gun, but she doubted she could possibly be fast enough to dodge a bullet shot at such close range and, anyway, she had no way of approximating Snow's strengths. He was old, certainly, but he also had at least a head of height and twenty pounds on her. Appearances, she knew from experience, could be deceptive. With an almost weary resignation, she had to admit it. She had lost.

'Thank you, Miss Anderson,' Snow said, his voice shockingly normal, as if he spoke to his employees at gunpoint every day of the week. Maybe he did. 'You can go now.'

Clove nodded, her body numb and her heart even number. She watched Snow out of the corner of her eye as he set the pistol down onto the desk again and turned to walk, as if in a dream, back up to the door. As she stood there, she forced herself to look back at him.

'What's in it for me?' she asked, startling herself with the force of the question.

Snow gazed up at her, his stare totally blank, emotionless. A statue, Clove thought to herself. _He's a living statue_. 'In it for you?'

'I always get something,' Clove replied. 'For a kill.' It was true. The first kill she had made for him, he had given her the flat. The second, the furniture. For every kill since, she had received payment of some kind, some bribe, a new knife or a healthy cheque to fund her growing expensive taste for clothes and shoes. 'What do I get for this one?'

Snow considered her for a moment. 'My dear Miss Anderson,' he said after a moment, and the cold smile returned to his lips, 'I do believe you've already received your payment.'

And with that, the glass doors slid across the doorframe, blocking Snow's sneering face from her view and Clove was left standing alone in the hallway.

**[BREAK]**

Cato had allowed himself an hours worth of wallowing before snapping back into action. After he had surveyed the wreckage of his apartment, the smashed ornaments and broken glasses on the floor, he had dived into the shower, quickly letting the hot water run over his whole body, washing the smell of her away, and then he had run out the door.

Running, Cato had found over the years, was the most effective way of venting the pent-up anger that had always lived, breeding and thriving, in his chest. Once upon a time, Marvel had gone with him, jogging on his left side and giving snide encouragements-disguised-as-insults every so often. Cato had enjoyed his company so much he hardly ever pulled ahead even when he could, but ran alongside his friend, shooting back replies over his shoulder. Now, though, Cato ran alone.

He had heard from Marvel two days ago, just before he had left to the society dinner where he had killed the assassin Clove had hired to kill him. He'd used her knife for that, he recalled. The same, silver handled knife he had picked up from the alleyway almost a week ago, the same knife he had pressed to her white neck the night before, the same knife she had taken from the living room floor when she had left this morning. Bile burned in the back of his throat.

Marvel and Katie were in Paris now. A niche little studio flat in a very fashionable district, or so Marvel had claimed when he had rung on a dodgy payphone that crackled in and out of clarity as he spoke. Very exclusive, very hard to find. Safe, in other words, though Marvel hadn't said them. Cato had known the minute he answered the phone that it would be their last call for a while.

'Listen,' Marvel's voice had cracked. 'I don't know when...if...'

'...You'll be able to call again,' Cato had finished for him. They had never been the kind of friends to finish each other's sentences but then hadn't seemed the time to bother about that.

'Yeah.'

'Right.'

'Look, Cato, the thing is...' Marvel had kept breaking off and Cato hadn't been able to tell if that was the phone line or his friend's emotions getting the better of him. 'It was fine once we were travelling, y'know? Always going to a different place. Not having to worry about covering our tracks. But now we're settled...it's...'

'...Easier to track you.' Cato had felt the heat burn behind the backs of his eyes. 'I get it.'

'Sorry.' When Cato hadn't replied, Marvel had tried to engage him again. 'Hey, how's it going with your creepy kink? With the killer girl?'

_I have to kill her._

'Fine. We've had a couple of dates.'

_I have to kill her._

'Oh yeah?' Cato had been able to hear the smirk in his friend's voice. 'Is that code for her trying to knife you again?' Marvel had been trying to make him laugh, Cato knew that. But he just hadn't been in the mood.

_I have to kill her._

'Bye, Marv.'

He hadn't even saved the number when he hung up.

Before he knew what was happening, Cato realised that it was approaching mid-morning and he had been running for almost two hours. He stopped abruptly and rested his hand on a nearby railing. His chest was on fire and his entire body ached like it had been coated in cement and been left out in the sun for too long. Through his temple, he could feel his veins throbbing, screaming in protest at how he was running in this heat. _It's not even sunny,_ Cato noted. _But it's so hot. It's suffocating._ For some reason, that made him shudder.

It was lunchtime when he finally staggered back through the door of his apartment. Unsurprisingly, the mess he had left had completely vanished, to be replaced by the vision of shining cleanliness that could only have been left by his Ukrainian cleaner, Anya, who came in whenever he left the building to sort through his mess. She never did any job less than perfect. Moving towards the kitchen table, Cato swiped a coaster out from under a cup of coffee and set the cup back on the wood. He hated perfect.

When his landline rang, Cato nearly jumped out of his skin with shock. He had lived in Kensington Heights for nearly three years now and, as far as he could remember, he had never received a call from the landline phone; any calls he got always went straight to his iphone or his PA. He didn't even give out his home number anymore. He was pretty sure he had had it disconected. A shiver ran down his spine as he picked up the phone.

'This is Cato Monroe, of Monroe-Carter Enterprise,' he said into the receiver (God, were all house phones this awkward to hold?). 'Who am I speaking to?'

'We need to talk.'

Electricity flickered through Cato's body at the sound of her voice; the cement that had been coating his limbs and pushing on his ribs cracked and he felt like he could breathe again.

'Clove,' he said, his voice coming out in a long breath.

'One and the same.'

'What's the matter?' His brain fell back into the now familiar rhythm of teasing flirtation. 'Change your mind about last night?' He sure fucking hoped so.

'You wish, Monroe,' was her quicker than light reply. God, how was it possible for one girl to sound so attractive on a fucking landline telephone? 'You and I have business to discuss.'

'I'm all ears,' he said, leaning back against the couch, even though she couldn't see him.

'You're all _something_, alright.'

He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to hold her and kiss her and fuck her. All from a damn telephone call.

'We can't talk now,' Clove continued. Somehow, she sounded older on the phone, less delicate, less lethal. 'Not on the phone. It's not sensible.'

'I agree.' _Anything to get to see her in person. _'What do you have in mind as an alternative?'

'There's a café three blocks down from your road. Called _Christiano's, _there's red and white bunting outside. Can't miss it. Be there in an hour, or else.'

'Or else what?' Cato grabbed onto her challenge, his heart caught in his throat.

Clove didn't reply. 'I have a proposition for you, Mr Monroe,' she said. 'One I think you'll want to hear. An hour. Red and white bunting. I'll be waiting.' Cato heard the click on the other end of the line that told him she had hung up.

'I'll be there,' he murmured to the empty apartment, before chucking the phone onto the couch behind him and heaving a deep sigh. _Damn_.

He made a mental note to call girls on the landline more often.


End file.
